Ivory and Horn
by whistle.the.silver
Summary: Sequel to Witnessed Here in Time and Blood. It's said that the realm of dreams has two gates, one of ivory and one of horn. The truth only passes through one of these, as Hermione and Fleur discover.
1. Chapter 1

Dear Reader,

So, here's a story about Hermione, Fleur, dreams and spells. It takes place after _Witnessed Here in Time and Blood_, which you may read first, if you wish. It is, however, very long. If you skip it, I won't be offended but you're then not allowed to complain (too vigorously) about spoilers or general befuddlement.

More importantly, this story features characters and concepts borrowed from JK Rowling. I'm only taking them for a short spin and own nothing. It also features characters and concepts from Neil Gaiman's The Sandman. This takes place after the series so I'm now giving a proper **SPOILER** warning. The Sandman is an incredibly good tale and it'd be a shame and probably heresy if you were spoiled for it by reading my little fanfic.

So, **SPOILERS** for The Sandman. Please proceed cautiously. This whole story will take a while to post so why not go read it first? Libraries are your friend.

Still with me? Sounds like your cup of tea? Right. Good. On with the show!

* * *

In the northern most reaches of Scotland, there is a castle. When mundane eyes, like yours or mine, chance upon it they perceive nothing other than a forbidding ruin. It sits in desolation, nameless and abandoned as time pulls it asunder. The stones from the highest spires topple and sink themselves in boggy earth. Vast courtyards paved with broken flag stones vanish beneath dead leaves and deep cushions of moss. Water falls over rotten rafters, staining ancient wood and puddling in musty corners. Dark mirrors for a grey sky amongst broken glass and cracked delph.

This nameless ruin stands in sprawling, wild grounds. Over-grown hedges and trees bar entrance to the weedy, rush filled fields surrounding the place. Jackdaws roost in weathered pine trees and cough as they guard the bleak bent land. Mist rolls off a mountain lake and chills marrow in the bone. The sun never seems to shine there, not even during the height of summer.

On the rare occasion that a hiker or fowler approaches, they find themselves come to an unintentional stop. There is a certain dread there, though there is nothing about the place to suggest ghosts or battles long since fought. They feel some instinct, deep within the pit of their gut, that tells them to leave. Something tells them that they are most emphatically unwelcome. They wear a uniform expression, if one were to spy them, of puzzlement and distaste. Invariably, they move on. Scotland doesn't lack other, friendlier castles and lakes, after all. Most of them forget the place as soon as they turn their back.

But on the odd occasion, some rare folk will revisit that high, wild place in their dreams. Summer sunlight blazes from a cloudless sky. Songbirds thrill from neat hedges and fruitful orchards as you move forward from where before you stopped. A whistle shrieks, then the panting chug of a steam engine. A scarlet train, white steam and sparks billowing from the smoke stack, whizzes past. Golden fixtures and letters gleam in the sunlight and laughing school children wave at you from carriages. Following the train with your eyes, it crosses lush meadows dotted with plump Friesian cows lowing moodily at the disruption.

It heads towards a distant station and you, the dreamer, move onwards. The lake appears before you, now a polished mirror for the perfect sky. Lush reeds and yellow flowers sway in the warm, fragrant breeze. Onwards again and a forest comes into view. Ancient in a way you thought impossible in Britain, trees bearing every shade of green crowd together, raising a great susurrant voice. Birds wheel above and deer lift their wary heads beneath shaded eaves. It is not a friendly place, or a human place, but the wise dreamer recognises that it is an _important_ place. That it protects secrets that would burn to ash in the cold light of reason.

Onwards.

Few have spoken of the castle upon waking. How its towers rise proudly, coloured banners fluttering from their peaks. How stained glass winks in the sun. How, even from a great distance, polished brass shines with honed lustre. It is, in every way you ever imagined, a fairy tale castle. There is the tower that holds the princess. There is the battlement that houses eagle eyed archers. There is the stone road that bears a score of proud knights to battle. There is the crooked mage's tower, no doubt containing a wise sorcerer. It is something you will never speak about, for how does one translate such a perfect dream into waking words? How does one capture such splendour in daylight's clumsy language?

As you feel the tug of wakefulness, details suddenly swell before your eyes, sharp and clear. A row of greenhouses, neat and redolent with the deep scent of compost. A herb garden on a stone terrace where a wizened chef plucks rosemary. A hut beneath the trees, door open in the summer warmth where a wild man sits smoking beside an immense dog. A strange sports field, sand and grass unsullied beneath tall poles. A white cottage tucked into the slope of the hill.

Even as you try to grip these scenes, they slip from your desperate grasp. Birdsong harshens to the call of crows. The sun fades. The castle slips into ruin and the little houses sag beneath the weight of long years of neglect. The warmth of the sun is lost.

You awaken then, discomfited and lonesome. For a brief moment, you remember that there is a world of castles and gleaming steam engines. A place where the taste of magic is thick in the air and impossible fantasy is as matter of fact as a herd of cattle. In the dark of your bed (or the light of a lamp); in solitude (or beside another); in waking (though you try to cling to sleep) you see a world of magic.

Chasing the sadness from your heart, chasing the memory of wet, dead grass on a muddy moor before an abandoned castle, you turn beneath your blanket. You feel ridiculous for feeling so lonesome over a dream. It's only a dream, you tell yourself. It's not real. Nothing to lament. Only a dream.

As you try to sink back into sleep, you scoff at that childish part of you, that still yearns for castles and magic. It's not real. Only a dream.

But the oldest part of you knows a lie, especially one told with such a lack of conviction.

Because what defines reality, if not our dreams?

* * *

**Ivory and Horn: Chapter One**

Hermione Granger woke to darkness. She blinked blearily and stifled a yawn, peering up with unfocused eyes. Her vision was slow to pierce the sooty depths of the room but eventually, a faint rim of grey light resolved itself on the wall. She arched her back and the memory came of her lover, Fleur Delacour, throwing a towel over the bare curtain pole, grumbling about the fact that her mother had not yet sent a promised pair of drapes. She smiled and turned her face towards the other woman, listening to her slow, even breathing.

There was no hint of dawn to betray Fleur's form beside her, so early was the hour. There was no birdsong to compete with her quiet respiration, either. Hermione lay with her cheek against her pillow, listening carefully. Fleur was close to her, their legs brushing together. The sheets were warm, heat radiating from Fleur's bare skin. Earlier, she'd gone to sleep curled on her side, facing Fleur as she'd fondly traced a line from her hip to ribs and back again.

She reached out, laying the back of her hand carefully against Fleur, not keen to wake the other witch. Her hand was lifted with each breath and Hermione drew comfort from the contact. She moved her shoulders, burrowing into the mattress and stared up at the ceiling. Well, she presumed she was staring at the ceiling. She drew the sheet around herself, feeling rather daring for sleeping nude but also a bit chilled. The comforter was long gone, kicked to the floor hours previous and she made no move to retrieve it.

The gamekeeper's Cottage (known as The Cottage-Under-Ha) creaked a bit, settling and cooling around them. An owl called to the night and some other variety of bird honked tonelessly in affront. She frowned, wondering what had stirred her. Dawn was hours away and nothing in the waking world seemed to demand her attention. She closed her eyes and tried to remember if she'd been dreaming. She had the kind of uneasy, queasy feeling that accompanied the aftermath of nightmares but couldn't recall any. She was, however, wide awake and held little desire to sleep again. Fleur sighed in her sleep and Hermione felt a stab of loneliness. How strange, to find such isolation despite being so close to another!

Perhaps Fleur would awaken, too. Maybe they'd whisper together in the dark and share secrets as the whole world lay sleeping. Maybe Fleur would curl around her again, cradling her with arms, legs and body until they drifted back to sleep. Maybe they'd make love again.

She felt a small stab of guilt. Fleur was tired and needed the rest more than she herself needed to be entertained through the depths of night. She had, after all, spent the previous few days moving into, and undertaking repair of, the cottage. The little house had laid empty since Wilfang Ogg had retired several decades previous and had thus been in dire need of a decent cleaning. But Fleur seemed cheerful, delighted by the challenge and had thrown herself into the task with gusto. She'd even cooked a small meal to celebrate Hermione's visit.

She smiled to herself in the darkness and moved just a bit closer to Fleur, pulling the sheet from between them and allowing the other woman's warmth to seep into her. She closed her eyes and consciously slowed her breath, willing herself to return to sleep. To drift off into peaceful slumber beside her lover. To join her as she slept.

Fleur shifted closer, her warm breath falling on Hermione's shoulder. She made a contented, dreamy kind of sound and then lay still. Hermione's hand was trapped between them and she moved her fingers idly, tracing the shallow depression between two ribs. Fleur slept on, her presence welcome despite the pang of loneliness it aroused.

_If only we could meet in dreams again, like we did before._

It was a sleepy, throwaway thought. As Hermione sank through the layers of waking and dozing and half waking, her thoughts slowed and seemed to fragment, drifting from her like leaves on water. She felt a memory flutter down, surprising her. She hadn't recalled enough of it to realise she'd ever forgotten it.

_I've been here before._

On the shores of night, caught between memory and waking thought, Hermione dreamed.

* * *

_The first time it happened, she thought nothing of it_

* * *

The sand beneath her was cold to the touch, damp and clinging. She pushed herself up and stood, dusting off her hands. She realised that she was standing on the same bank she'd once shared with Fleur, though it was dark and cold. The little stream burbled before her, clear water running over tumble smooth stones. The tree behind her was dark and leafless, forbidding and solemn in the airless silence surrounding her. She cast her eyes about, knowing with strange certainty that Fleur was meant to be with her in that place.

There was no life in the grove; it was as though winter had claimed it already, shaking leaves from the trees and chilling the air. The silence was eerie too, almost stinging in its intensity, broken only by the gushing music of water. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked around again, though the scene had not changed. Unhappy and bewildered, she decided to move. She began to walk, following the flow of water. With no colour to reflect, it was perfectly clear and appeared fresh, as though awaiting the resumption of spring life.

She walked. The stream gurgled beside her, running over rounded stones and tripping down short falls. The trees gave way after a short distance and the silver sky seemed to stretch, smothering the horizon and stealing the substance from the land around her. It was as though the world was vanishing, fading at the edges and leeching into oblivion. But the stream still flowed and she knew that streams had to empty into something. So on she walked.

Time must have passed, though she could not count its beats, because she found herself in a new place, now. The edges of the world sharpened, coming back into focus. The burn darted down an incline to one side, while a small hill rose to the other. She left the stream and ascended, calmly regarding the strange, silent world around her. The sound of water over stone remained with her, though, and she found comfort in the familiarity. Soon she came to the top of the little hill and paused, gazing out around her.

The land before her was vast. It stretched from one horizon to the other, hazy mountain peaks visible at the limits of her sight. It was barren, though. A dead land. Tree trunks were scattered around, some surrounded by shattered, splintered branches. Hermione turned in a circle, wondering calmly where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. The sky was grey overhead, the clouds so flat they were almost impossible to discern. No wind blew. No sound disturbed the silence, bar the music of the stream.

A glint of light drew her attention and she found herself moving towards it, in the purposeful but detached manner commonly seen in dreams. The ground was quite dusty underfoot, as though no rain fell in this place. She passed empty campfires, grey pits filled with cold ash. The flash of light that drew her sparkled close now and she stooped, lifting a dusty bottle from the ground. It was empty and, sadly, did not bear a label or contain any kind of message. She peered at it for a moment before remembering.

The stream flowed into a river. The river passed beneath a bridge. Once, when she was a girl, she'd stood on that bridge for… something.

"I'm dreaming," she whispered, setting the bottle back down. As she did, she disturbed a little pile of dust and, to her surprise, a shoot was revealed. Shining, a pair of dark green leaves gleaming in the dim light, it was the last thing she saw before she felt herself pulled awake.

She woke in a Way House, in a remote part of France.

* * *

Fleur Delacour rubbed the sand from her eyes and stifled a yawn. Bright August light crept in where her makeshift curtains had failed, allowing her to locate her slippers and a dressing gown without undue fuss. She turned to her lover, sitting on the edge of the bed as she blinked the last remnants of her night's rest away.

Hermione was supine, one hand curled into a loose fist behind her head. Her hair was spread over her pillow and much of Fleur's, dark against the pale sheets. Her lips were parted and her eyelashes fluttered. Fleur smiled at the sight, charmed by the tiny sounds she made as she slept. She leaned over the edge of the bed, gathering the duvet and spreading it over her peaceful lover. Hermione didn't budge and Fleur stifled a giggle.

_Tired out, are we?_

Feeling rather proud of her prowess, Fleur exited the small bedroom and made for the kitchen. The Cottage-under-Ha was small, much smaller than Shell Cottage. The little bungalow boasted a grand total of four rooms, these being the kitchen, the parlour, the bedroom and a small bathroom. Tiny though it was, it seemed more than adequate for one person and Fleur was quite delighted with her new lodgings.

"Bonjour, Crookshanks," she called, grinning at the enormous cat sprawled out on the comfier of two armchairs. He opened one baleful eye and regarded her for a moment before yawning and settling back down to sleep.

"Mais, quelles creatures paresseusus!" she huffed playfully, flicking her wand at the ashes in the stove. "Je suis tout seul, ce matin."

The cinders trembled in the grate, the few remaining coals shaking themselves free of their rind and flaring back to life. A little cloud of ash floated up and out, heading for a metal bucket beside the back door. Another flick of her wand and several blocks of dry wood leapt into the grate, the last politely closing the door after itself. Fleur tugged the damper open and turned to fill a percolator, craving a cup of coffee.

_So I'm not entirely Anglified yet, then._

She yawned again and wandered to the little table, picking up her To Do List and scowling briefly at it. How was it that one could spend an entire week completely busy and yet still have at least six inches worth of tasks to achieve? She spied several jobs in Hermione's neat, small cursive and frowned, wondering why on earth she needed to evict the poor bats from the attic.

After all, they had a much better claim to the place than she did.

The percolator was beginning to make soft noises and Fleur rooted around for her good saucepan and the porridge, humming as she went.

She had a long day ahead of her, she mused. While the interior of the cottage was more or less acceptable (she wouldn't have invited Hermione over otherwise) the outside was in sore need of attention. The mortar was crumbling in places, largely thanks to the heavy, damp ivy mantles that had matured during years of neglect. The thatch was also quite ragged but Hagrid had promised to come and help with that.

Milk splashed into the pot and a spoon got to stirring. Fleur grimaced a bit. She wasn't Rubeus Hagrid's biggest fan but she suspected they'd be working closely together in the coming months. She knew there was no harm in the giant, and that her beloved headmistress was quite fond of him, but she still sometimes dreamed about Mad Eye Moody, screaming as he fought desperately. Silent as he fell.

She doubted she would ever forget his enchanted eye rolling uselessly in his skull, flickering about even as he tumbled, dead and limp through the air.

She shook her head, dislodging the unhappy memory and pouring a mug of coffee. Given what they now knew of Snape's continued loyalty, it seemed unlikely that poor Hagrid had been the source of the leak at all. She sighed, unwilling to dwell on memories of the past.

To Do List. Ivy to remove. Whitewash. Shutters to be repaired. A girlfriend to negotiate with regarding bats.

A girlfriend.

She bit her lip. She tried to keep the grin from splitting her face.

Hermione Jean Granger was her girlfriend.

* * *

_The second time it happened, she thought it was the engines_

* * *

Hermione shielded her eyes against a blinding glare, wincing as her vision blanched. Wind whispered around her and her feet felt strangely cold. Eventually, she was able to peer out through carefully squinted eyelids.

The world around her was shockingly blue above and incredibly white below. She gasped when she realised that her feet were buried in thick, fluffy clouds. Despite looking like cotton wool, however, they were cold and wet. She frowned, blinking still, shielding her eyes with her hand.

The sky above was a deep shade of blue approaching indigo and so rich it appeared woven from velvet. As it fell towards the clouds, it lightened and brightened. Ringed rainbows glittered in the distance and heaped cumulus towers stretched as far as her vision could perceive.

She pressed her feet down, wondering how strong the clouds were and if they would bear her weight for long. She wondered, briefly, if she should move but found herself terrified to lift her feet. She swallowed, peering around.

Cloud and sky. The dome of heaven and quite a lot of weather.

Her train of thought was interrupted when a single, shining fish swam into view before her eyes. Bright green, with iridescent silver flecks dotting it scales and long, flowing fins. It peered at her, staring for a long moment before opening its mouth.

Hermione frowned. Surely there shouldn't have been a bubble?

Another fish, this one smaller and much more ragged in appearance, swam unsteadily into view. Its skin was more or less translucent, its only colour taking its origin from the blue veins beneath its skin. One fin was torn and one eye missing. The green fish glared at the new comer, and Hermione wondered what had annoyed it.

The blue fish swam in an uneven loop around her head, keeping its good eye trained on her. She watched it for a moment before turning her attention to the other fish, who was nipping at her finger.

"Shoo," she chided, frowning. "Please don't try to eat my hands."

"They do that," a panting voice called, from somewhere down and to the right. "But usually with dead people. I don't think these little guppies will make much headway."

Hermione gave a small shriek as dozens and dozens more fish shot out of the cloud around her, moving with great speed. The green and blue fish led the charge, bringing the shoal together. They swam in the air, about ten feet from her and Hermione stood, engrossed.

Sunlight glittered off hundreds of tiny, moving creatures who poured themselves into a ball, moving in complete synchronicity. Their scales shone as they rolled in the air. It was a mesmerising sight. A tight sphere one moment and a fractured spiral the next. Pulsing to some unknown beat and flicking themselves into tight turns.

The blue fish, though, broke away for a moment, hanging still in the air. The panting voice grew nearer, grumbling and miserable. The fish turned its good eye down towards it and then back to her.

In an instant, the shoal vanished. Hermione blinked, wondering how so many fish could coordinate apparation at once.

"I swear," panted the voice, clearly out of breath, "I'm gonna kill her."

Hermione was quite surprised, though she shouldn't have been, to see a dark head pop through the clouds not twenty feet from her. A dog, some sort of black and brown collie, peered around, panting as it threaded water high in the air.

It growled, though Hermione thought it sounded annoyed, rather than angry. It caught sight of her and paddled to her side. As it approached, she reached down and tugged his collar, pulling him up and onto the cloud beside her.

"Thanks, lady," he said, shaking himself vigorously. Thankfully, no water left his coat. Hermione stared at him. He blinked at her, frowning back in the serious way that some dogs do.

"You haven't seen a girl up here, have you?"

"Aside from myself?" she asked, not wanting to be rude. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Ha!" a croaky voice called from above, "some freaking guide dog you are!"

"Shut the hell up," the dog growled at a large, glossy raven. Bright sunlight left his feathers purple, green and shimmering. He landed on the dog's back, clacking his beak with mirth.

"Good work, man. Seriously."

"Can you please piss off, Matthew. I was askin' this lady if she's seen my soon to be ex-mistress."

Matthew, as the raven seemed to be known, canted his head to one side, peering at her with a bright, inky eye.

"A dreamer? You really think she'd have a clue?"

The dog looked at her before chuffing wearily. "Ah, shit. Well, see ya, lady."

The raven took wing with a croaking cough and the dog turned his back, lowering his nose and sniffing. Hermione started forward, before catching herself.

"Wait!" she called. The raven wheeled back, sliding through the air towards her. The dog, however, ignored her entirely. "How do I get out of here?"

"Easy," he cawed. "Just wake up."

She blinked, surprised for half a second before feeling stupid indeed. Of course she was dreaming.

"How do I wake up, then?" she demanded, folding her arms and adopting her firmest tones.

The raven scoffed (which was, she had to admit, an impressive sight to behold). The dog rolled his eyes.

"Listen, you're standing on a cloud. Why don't you try falling?"

As soon as he spoke, she realised with dread that she was _standing on a bloody cloud_ and that clouds generally didn't offer much in the way of sure footing. The world beneath her seemed pulled taut for a moment before the tension snapped. Her stomach was shoved towards her thraot and she began to fall.

"Kid!" the dog called. "Don't worry! It's never the fall that kills you! Just wake up before you land!"

A scream built in her throat, partly fueled by fear and partly anger at being reduced to having to listen to bad advice from a sheep dog.

She woke on an airplane, half way to Australia

* * *

Fleur surveyed the scene with a critical eye. The battered wooden table (scrubbed to within an inch of its life three days prior) bore two place settings. Fresh, crumbly brown bread sat beside the butter dish while two bowls awaited porridge. The scent of fresh coffee filled the room, issuing from the softly tooting percolator. She nodded, pleased with the added touch of a flower in a vase.

She tightened her dressing gown and returned to the bedroom, smiling at the sight of Hermione still sleeping peacefully.

It had been two weeks since the other witch had returned from Australia and Fleur counted them among the happiest of her life to date. Despite both of them being very busy, they'd found time to spend together, both alone and with their friends. They'd helped Harry with some of the thousand and one tasks waiting in Grimmauld Place and decorated Hermione's bedroom. They'd gone out for several dinners and visited some fascinating places. They'd spent an entire day in the British museum, wandering the echoing halls and hidden nooks.

They'd passed an evening cuddled together listening to music and a couple more talking. They'd also spent several nights together, exploring each other at leisure and, crucially, without getting sand everywhere. Fleur smiled at the memories and, after adjusting her dressing gown so it gaped open just a bit, sat beside Hermione, laying a hand on the duvet over her belly.

She'd had affairs with women other than Hermione, before the war. She'd delighted in giving them pleasure but had been reluctant to allow the favour returned. Most, she remembered with a flare of hurt, had been all too happy with that arrangement. Hermione, however, was having none of that and took obvious delight in her. She was more playful than her day to day demeanour would suggest and their nights were filled with joy and more than a bit of laughter.

Fleur sighed, wondering how she'd been lucky enough to find herself so blessed. She rubbed Hermione's belly and called her name softly, wishing to wake her as gently as possible. She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the sleeping witch's forehead, revelling in the scent of her hair.

"Wake up, ma loutre," she laughed, her words mumbling as they tumbled against Hermione's skin. "Breakfast is ready."

Hermione didn't stir and Fleur drew back, an eyebrow raised. Was it a game? She studied her lover, noting the flickering eyelids and her steady respiration. It was slow and even, unchanged since she'd entered. Her face was slack, too, no smile hidden beneath the guise of feigned sleep.

Fleur frowned then. Hermione didn't appear to be pretending. "Hermione," she called, speaking a bit more loudly. "Wake up."

There was no change.

"Hermione," she called, swallowing past a lump in her throat. Dread filled her and she pressed her hand into Hermione's stomach. "Please. Wake up. You're scaring me."

Hermione slept on and Fleur's heart was gripped with panic. Her lover was not, in any way, cruel and would not carry on a joke if it bothered someone. Fleur lifted her hand, pressing her finger nail sharply. No response. She pulled the duvet down and pressed her knuckles into the skin over Hermione's breast bone, rubbing firmly for a moment or two. No response. She laid her thumb over her eyelid and lifted it gently. Nothing.

She drew her hands back, shaking violently. A scream welled up in her throat but she bit it back, knowing that she needed to act, rather than fall to pieces.

Something was dreadfully wrong.

* * *

Well. What do you think? Potential? Drop me a line, let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

When last we visited, you spied the edge of a vast forest. Enter now. Pass beneath the great eaves, trailing cataracts of honey suckle in the late summer air. Deer peer at the disturbance, for a moment, before turning back to their own mysterious pursuits. The ground is very soft, cushioned by dry fallen leaves. A great dappled hide, brightened by flashes of sunlight as branches shift. The scent is rich and complicated, hiding secrets and summoning memories which sit stubbornly at the very edge of recall. Flowers bloom on the briar, enticing bees and the occasional butterfly.

Birds and animals call constantly. Some are familiar, like the snapping clatter of a magpie, but others strange. Sonorous and doleful, they add a sense of solemnity to proceedings. It is as though you've been granted admission to a sacred place, a guest on strict probation.

Onwards, following no discernible path or trail. Laughter sounds from above and three young women leap from a high bough. They tumble onto the ground with complete disregard for bumps and bruises, scattering into the under growth without even glancing your way.

Your feet find their own way, treading over the innumerable, desiccated remains of years gone by. Needles mix with broad leaves, delicate veins visible for a while, yet. The husks of seeds and broken twigs are firmer and though you wear shoes, you feel every detail of the detritus. Each time the leaf litter is disturbed, the perfume of the forest is renewed. Woody, musty and sweet with decay.

The cool green air brightens and a new scent, that of wood smoke, catches your attention. Before you is a small village, tucked into the grassy hollows beneath great boles encircling a clearing. The cabins are small but neat, wattle and daub thatched with reed, for the most part. Higher, on the broad limbs perpendicular to the ground sit little huts. The village is busy. Women bustle around, industrious in the burgeoning warmth of morning. Children rush about too, shrieking with abandon.

The tranquility, the charming rusticity of the scene evaporates, however, as a monster strides forward. Silver eyes flash in the sun, cruel and inhuman. Broad wings are stretched, no doubt poised to clyte upon you. Wicked talons catch the light, ready to tear you apart.

There is no reluctance when you wake, this time. There is no regret at leaving your dream. Your heart pounds and sweat rolls down your back. As you wipe your face with trembling hands, you realise that the forest is not a human place for a very, _very_ good reason.

You hope, dearly, that you'll never stray there again.

* * *

**Ivory and Horn: Chapter 2**

* * *

The Veela warrior Vega, once known as Kurzakanka, sat whistling as she fletched a score of footed arrow shafts. It was a fine summer morning, bright and fresh. Birdsong filled the air, complementing the fragments of conversation drifting from other inhabitants of the camp. The blacksmith's anvil sang with impressive rhythm, infrequent pauses broken by the decrescendo of steam. Several children were playing in and below a large, wide limbed oak nearby, singing songs of their own devising.

"Vega!" one called, a scrappy girl not yet old enough to hold a wand. Vega squinted up, grinning at her.

"Yes, Hania?"

"See how high I am!" she laughed. "I'm higher than Joanna!"

Joanna, the girl's younger sister, stood pouting on a branch several body lengths below. Vega clucked her tongue and shook her head.

"Careful you don't fall, young lady," she scolded half heartedly. "Your mother would be unhappy and your sister completely heartbroken."

Hania rolled her eyes. "I won't fall! I'm not some silly baby!"

Vega chuckled and shook her head. The girl was sure footed for her age, unusually so, and even if she did fall, Vega didn't doubt she'd be able to prevent the child from coming to any harm. She spied the mother of the pair of girls approach and watched as she retrieved her wayward offspring. The woman, a moody baker, scowled at her, muttering under her breath as she dragged her reluctant daughters in the direction of their home.

"You, my love," a soft voice laughed behind her ear, "are an unrepentant trouble maker."

Vega smiled and peered to one side. "If they don't climb, they'll never know how high they can go."

"Or how hard they'll fall," Gabriela Senka sighed, sitting beside her on the ground, arranging a blinking infant on her lap. The Queen of the tribe, youngest daughter of the High Queen of the Veela, wore a wry smile and bore her daughter, Celeste, with quite affection. Vega smiled widely at the sight, reaching out and brushing the baby's cheek with her finger tip.

"She's much cleaner, now," she remarked. Senka lifted an incredulous eyebrow and reached over, flicking her sharply on the arm.

"She'd never have been so filthy if you hadn't introduced her to the joys of jam!"

Vega attempted to adopt a most scandalised mien at the attack but, given the expression on her wife's face, was not going to succeed in evoking pity. She rubbed the sore spot on her arm and shrugged. "It's not my fault she figured out how to get the jar open."

Senka frowned, though she was fighting to keep a smile off her face. "I'm still trying to understand _how_ she managed to get it open." She squinted at her wife in as stern a manner as she could (which was, in Vega's opinion, as stern as a week old kitten). "You're sure you didn't leave it open, when you left after breakfast?"

Vega reached out a hand, letting their daughter gnaw on her finger. "Would I be so careless? Perhaps she's just manifesting her abilities!"

Senka's eyebrows shot up. "She's not even nine months old, Vega."

"I think," Vega grinned, "with such a talented and wonderful mother, she was bound to start early!"

Senka rolled her eyes. "And _I_ think you left the jam out. And that your flattery has gotten much more clumsy, recently."

Vega leaned forward, kissing her daughter's forehead and then her wife's nose. "Who said I was talking about you?"

Senka's jaw dropped, her mouth falling open incredulously. Vega busied herself by making faces at the laughing baby on her wife's lap and mentally counting down to the inevitable explosion.

Their antics were interrupted, however, by the appearance of the warrior Iliana. Due to the fact that some months ago she's gifted one of the hairs off her head, she stood arrayed as Veela. Her great wings were closed but sat stiffly, as though worried. Her face bore a grim expression but, Vega would easily admit, such was Iliana's default appearance when transformed.

"Greetings, your highness, Vega," she said, bowing sharply, "I come bearing bad news."

Vega sat up straight, dropping the shaft of the arrow she'd held into the pile of those yet unfinished. "What is it, Iliana?"

"I just received a message, via a Patronus charm, of all created things," she shook her head, bemused. "Fleur requires our help. There is something wrong with Hermione Granger."

Senka blinked. "Did she say what?"

Iliana sighed deeply. "She cannot awaken her from sleep."

Vega blinked in surprise when, as quick as a flash, Celeste had been deposited in her lap. Senka stood, an unhappy expression marring her cheerful face.

"Find a baby sitter and follow us," she ordered, dropping quick kisses to both of them. She turned and, with a nod, hurried after Iliana.

Vega blinked again and peered down at her daughter, who was reaching for her hair with a happy giggle.

"You know, daughter dear, be glad you're growing up with these lunatics," she sighed, gazing after the pair of women. "Because it's the only way you're going to understand them properly."

* * *

_The third time it happened, she thought it was the relief_

* * *

Hermione should have noticed the cold. After all, she'd gone to sleep in a stiflingly hot hostel in Melbourne only to find herself tripping over piles of slush and snow in Diagon Alley. Her boots were wet and her robes spotted with snowflakes. Her arms were full of parcels, some wrapped in plain brown paper and some gaily festooned with ribbons and bows. She dodged two men snacking on roasted chestnuts and scurried along her way.

She was late, she knew. Late and struggling with the arm load of gifts. Every time they seemed balanced, one would slip, threatening to slide out of her grasp entirely and onto the wet ground. She paused, jostling everything in her arms into some semblance of order before she carried on.

"Do I have something for everyone?" she wondered aloud. She had a distinct feeling that she'd forgotten something and chewed the inside of her cheek. Who? Harry? Ron? Luna? Assorted Weasleys? Her parents?

Her parents… Surely she'd missed the post deadline! How was she going to get their presents to Australia? It was already Christmas Eve, after all.

She scowled and ploughed on, parcels and packages shifting in her arms once more.

"Perhaps they save Christmas for winter, in Australia," she mused. Something didn't sound quite right about that but she hurried on none-the-less. She was late, to top it all off. There was somewhere she was meant to be. Some people she was meant to see.

But for the life of her, she couldn't remember who, exactly.

"Excuse me," a mild voice called from behind her shoulder. Hermione skidded to a stop, juggling the load in her arms again, almost sending several flying, and turned to the witch behind her.

"You dropped this, my dear," she said, smiling and holding out a wreath. Hermione blinked. Surely she already had a wreath for the door… She blinked at the young woman, clad in dark robes and smiled.

"Oh, thank you. I've got my arms full."

"So I can see," she said, smiling. She appeared older, though. More a grandmother than a youngster. Hermione shook her head and frowned at the load in her arms, wondering where to fit this new addition.

"Can you leave any of it behind?" the witch asked, kindly, obviously noticing her difficulty.

"Oh no, absolutely not!" Hermione laughed, astonished by the ridiculous notion. Leave it behind! What a nonsensical idea. "I need everything." She balanced on one foot and nudged several parcels back into her arms with the other knee.

The witch before her smiled sadly, her beautiful face creased with subtle wrinkles and her dark hair touched by strands of silver. Her eyes, though, seemed utterly ancient, brimming with memories and sorrow. She struck Hermione as the kind of person who probably had much to say, but was wise enough to remain quiet.

"If you say so, dear." She cocked her head to one side. "But take this, please."

Hermione peered at the wreath. Laurel and holly were intertwined, their dark leaves shining in the dim gas light. The red berries of the holly complimented a number of roses threaded through a helical tartan ribbon. Silver bells hung from a bow at the bottom of the arrangement, tinkling softly as the cold breeze moved them.

"It's beautiful," Hermione whispered, feeling something deep and old within her tighten. Something below her heart and lungs and guts. The sense that she was forgetting something grew stronger than ever, disconcerting and worrisome. She swallowed thickly, a lump tightening her throat. "Fleur will love it."

She blinked, a shock of surprise running down her spine. Fleur! Did she have anything for Fleur? She juggled the packages in her arms, trying to glimpse them all, trying to remember if she'd bought anything for the other witch. She was horrified to realise that while she had something for everyone, even a couple of knick-knacks for distant relatives, she had nothing for Fleur.

"Oh no!" she moaned, "I don't have anything for her! How.. how on earth could I have forgotten?" It was late in the day, the shops in the process of closing for the Yule break. Moreover, she herself was late. There was no time to remedy this awful oversight.

The matronly witch before her shrugged. "I'm sure this Fleur won't mind. Unless she's a child."

"No, she's not," Hermione sighed, frowning. "She's a grown up."

"Then she'll understand," the other witch reassured her. "Come along now, take this and get home to your family."

Her arms were entirely full, so the lithe young woman stretched and set the wreath on Hermione's head, looping it over her pointed hat. Hermione peered at the underside of the brim, idly wondering when she'd started wearing her old school hat again.

"There. Go home to your family."

Hermione nodded absently, but then paused, blinking. "My family… I don't know where they are," she said, quietly and with regret. "My parents… I found them today but I wasn't ready. I wasn't brave enough to speak to them."

The witch sighed, a hint of exasperation in the curl of her lip. "Well, they're your parents. They'll want to speak to you, I'm sure."

Hermione felt her throat tighten. "Even if I did something dreadful? Something awful? Unforgivable?"

The crone sighed, her mysterious eyes deep with pain and a burden of memory that Hermione suspected would have crushed others.

"You'd be amazed what parents can forgive their children, my dear. You'd be amazed how much you can harm us and yet we still forgive. We still love."

Hermione swallowed. "Do you have children?"

The witch shook her head and smiled. "You could say that. Sometimes, I feel like I'm everyone's mother."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but a croaking, oddly familiar voice called out from atop a lamppost.

"Yo! What you doing all the damn way out here? I've been looking everywhere for you!"

She knew that voice from somewhere. She frowned and shook her head, trying to recall. Her limbs weakened and the packages slid from her grasp, falling towards the wet pavement though she didn't see them hit the ground. She fumbled desperately, trying to catch them but missing each and every one. Tears filled her eyes and she felt a sob build in her throat.

"Talking to a dreamer? You'd have a better time talking to a freaking wall."

She woke in Melbourne, dreading the coming day.

* * *

Fleur paced the bedroom floor, biting her thumb nail as she went. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, accompanying a light breeze. She was dressed, as was Hermione. The other witch hadn't moved at all, not even stirring when Fleur had tugged loose pyjamas over her slack limbs. Not moving a single muscle as Fleur wore the varnish from the floorboards.

"Fleur?" a voice called, followed by a cursory knock on the front door. A long creak sounded, followed by several sets of hurried footsteps. She was pathetically grateful to see Gabriela Senka and her grandmother bustle through the door. Iliana firmly halted her worried pacing and embraced her.

"Gra mere," she whispered, burying her face in Iliana's chest, pathetically grateful for her presence, "I can't wake her up."

"Shh, dear heart," she crooned, gentler than Fleur could ever remember her while wearing this form. Her feathers were soft under Fleur's cheek and she sniffled, embarrassed to note that tears were welling in her eyes. She pulled back, swiping at her face with frustration.

"Fleur," Senka murmured as she stepped back, "what happened?" The little queen took her elbow gently, squeezing in reassurance.

"I don't know," Fleur replied, doing her best to pull herself back together. "I woke up and made breakfast for us. When I returned, I couldn't wake her!"

Iliana frowned. She moved to the bedside, squeezing her wings against her back to fit into the small space. She leaned over Hermione, frowning. She lifted a hand and touched her slack forehead. She then rubbed a knuckle between the young woman's eyes, causing Fleur to flinch but garnering no response from the slumbering witch.

"She is deeply asleep," Iliana said quietly. "Unnaturally so."

Fleur bit her tongue to prevent herself from saying anything grossly disrespectful. Her grandmother did not tend to waste time stating the obvious and Fleur did not think it was an appropriate time to adopt the habit. Senka frowned, several thoughts crossing her elfin features at once.

"Did she take something?" she asked, her voice soft and without judgement or censure.

Fleur's eyebrows lifted incredulously. "No! We had nothing stronger than butter beer with dinner last night." She had half a mind to be offended, though she knew it was the first question she would have asked, had their positions been reversed.

Senka nodded, as though asking for completeness' sake. "Any strange food? Did you pick any wild mushrooms?"

"No," Fleur said firmly, swiping a hand through her hair. "I was busy, so I made a quiche the day before yesterday. We ate the remnants last night."

Iliana sighed, stepping away from the bed. "Was she ill? Any headaches or the like?"

Fleur shook her head, tears welling again despite her best efforts to remain calm and collected. "She was fine. She arrived at around five o'clock and we had dinner. We sat and talked for a while and then we went to bed. She drifted off to sleep in an unremarkable manner."

Iliana nodded, frowning with puzzlement. "This is baffling. And worrisome."

Fleur's heart sank.

"Perhaps the Headmistress will be able to help," Senka suggested. "What if this is something that happens here? What if there's some sort of local imp?"

Fleur felt the blood drain from her face and head. She gripped the bedstead, woozy on her feet. "Do you really think we need her here?" Veela were one thing, Senka herself was married to another woman, but British magical folk were another indeed. Especially British witches who were held in high regard by her somnolent girlfriend.

"I most certainly do!" Iliana said. "Excellent idea."

Senka, perhaps a bit more sensitive, touched her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Fleur sighed. "I don't know if Hermione wants… I don't know if she's comfortable with people knowing. We hadn't discussed it."

Or rather, they'd discussed the subject in very vague terms. Fleur was resolute in her desire to never approach the so-called closet ever again but was also cognisant of Hermione's need to proceed at her own pace. She'd been outed before discovering the truth about Fleur and Bill, leaving her with little time to gather her considerable wits.

Hermione wanted, she'd said, a relationship with her. She wanted to be able to act like any other respectable couple in love (Fleur had yet to determine what precisely that meant but suspected that their night on the beach would not be repeated). She also wanted to tell her friends and family in her own time, in a controlled manner. After all, it was big and important news. So Hermione had requested a certain period of discretion and Fleur had readily agreed, fairly certain that this would be a short enough length of time.

Having Hermione's favourite teacher, and respected ally, discover that they were spending nights together was _not_ particularly discrete. By any stretch of even the most flexible imagination.

Senka clasped her shoulder fondly. "There's something to know?"

Fleur bit her lip, her heart racing as she faced her characteristically impassive grandmother. She folded her arms and tipped her head to one side expectantly. Fleur swallowed. With everything happening with Hermione, she'd quite neglected telling her _own_ family and friends. It was much more intimidating than she'd thought it would be.

"She and I are together," she said, with only the slightest waver to her voice.

Iliana moved towards her, brushing her hair back from her face with surprising gentleness, given that she was sporting talons. Her silver eyes were fond, more human than Fleur had seen them in a long time.

"I knew, when you asked for my hair that you would only do it for one you love. And you left yours for her wand wood," she mused, affectionately, "so I knew you loved her a great deal. Does she feel the same way?"

Fleur nodded, her eyes wandering back to her sleeping lover. They hadn't sat, hands clasped and exchanged the actual words but in many ways, there was no need. Hermione knew how she felt and she was fairly confident of her lover's affections. If she needed time to form the actual words with air and all, that was fine with Fleur. "I believe she does. I truly do."

Iliana shook her head, a wistful smile lightening her features. "Ah, to be young and in love."

Senka smiled wryly. "At its best when it's still fresh! So, we'll say nothing about anything. This house only has one bed and what's unusual about two friends sharing it?"

Fleur frowned. "I don't think that's going to quite stand up to scrutiny but very well," she said, turning to Hermione after her grandmother released her. "A scolding is far preferable to this."

* * *

_The fourth time it happened, she thought it was her fault_

* * *

The beach was quiet, despite the grey waves hurling themselves against the tide line. The frothing sea sounded dull and distant, as though miles away rather than a score of yards. Hermione could feel the damp sand under her bare feet, stealing warmth and threatening injury with splintered razor shells.

She turned from the sea, not eager to divine its cold, leaden secrets. She moved slowly up the shore, spying footprints in the damp sand. Indistinct and shallow, she frowned and followed them to a smudged, broken circle.

She knelt on the sand, running a careful finger over the ridge on the outer edge. Dark patches marred the sand, though all seemed grey in the dim light. Scorches here and a deeper stain there, delineating where she and Fleur had sealed themselves off from the rest of the world.

But the circle was broken, in many places. In fact, had she not known what had been there, she wouldn't have been able to identify it at all. She would have presumed a group of people had passed through.

She closed her eyes, trying to remember the warmth and affection so eagerly offered within the bounds. How Fleur had held her close and sent her soaring, all at once. She tried to recall the taste of Fleur's skin and the feeling of her pulse under her lips. How it felt to be inside her.

The memories were vague; insubstantial and shadowed. The sand was disturbed and cold. No warmth lingered and she wrapped her arms around herself. She stood, turning and hurrying up the beach, towards Shell Cottage. Had it always been so far away? Had the beach always been littered with flotsam and broken rubbish? Had the marram grass always appeared so ragged?

She ran through the gate, panting for breath, and stopped dead in her tracks. The chimes didn't sing in the cold breeze, though the back door bounced against its frame. Several window panes were missing or broken and a heavy air of dilapidation hung around the place.

Hermione caught the door and tugged it open. She didn't bother to call out, knowing with unusual certainty that the Cottage was empty. Sand had blown in through the door, hiding the kitchen flags beneath a fine, loessial mantle. The kitchen table was bare, though there was broken crockery lying on the sideboard of the dresser.

She moved onwards, heading for the parlour. Two armchairs sat facing an empty grate and she lowered herself into one gently. She stared into the cold fireplace, at the ashes heaped forlornly.

"No one's been here for a long time," a soft voice called. Hermione was unsurprised to see Luna enter the room, appearing paler and stranger than she usually did.

"It's sad, isn't it?" she asked, settling into the other chair.

Hermione nodded. "It feels very lonely."

Luna blinked, her wide eyes silver. "It does, doesn't it? Though you know what that feels like. So do I." She murmured, fiddling with the hem of her jumper. "It's always felt like this."

Hermione nodded, still staring into the abandoned hearth. "It didn't, once."

Luna sighed, drawing her attention. "It was nice to pretend, wasn't it?"

"I wasn't pretending," Hermione whispered, feeling tears prick at her eyes. "I never was. I…"

"You left," Luna said, quietly. "You're gone, now."

She stood then, her pale blonde hair white in the flat light.

"I came back, though. I wanted to find her."

Luna lifted an eyebrow so pale, it was difficult to appreciate the gesture. "Did you? Are you really back?"

Her heart sank. She wasn't home, at all. She was in Australia, in Brisbane. She'd found her parents and borne their rage and grief. She'd fled north, then, up the coast. She was lying in a hostel, dreaming of Shell Cottage.

She wasn't home. She was alone in a strange city.

"I want to come back," Hermione said, lifting her face. "I do."

Luna shook her head slowly. "To what? Empty houses and broken circles. There's nothing here for you, any more. Really, there never was."

The world faded from around her, grey and amorphous and utterly bleak. Despair weighed her heart and soul, wrenching tears from her eyes as she ploughed her way back into the waking world.

Would it be better? Would it be worse? Was there no respite, in dreaming or in the waking world, from the ghosts of the past?

She woke alone, as she had always done, but once.

* * *

Fleur was instructed to dispatch her Patronus once more, to inform the headmistress of the situation. She'd been quite reluctant to do so, because she wasn't sure if McGonagall knew what form Hermione's took. More to the point, she wasn't sure how Hermione would want her to answer any questions that could arise if the fact that their charms matched became known.

Perhaps McGonagall didn't know. From what Hermione had told her, she'd learnt the spell from Harry. They'd never practiced with the Order, either, as far as she knew. Still, she was nervy and discomfited. Was Hermione going to be outed _again_? Was she ever actually going to be able to choose her own moment to tell someone?

Fleur wrung her hands. It didn't help that not only was Minerva McGonagall a respected ally of Hermione's but in less than a week, she'd also be her headmistress and head of house. Fleur doubted the stern and strict witch would approve of a member of staff, even one who'd have no student contact such as herself, sharing a close relationship with a pupil.

As keen as she was to finally be herself, she felt that certain people would benefit from a delicate introduction.

Was this a power possessed by all teachers, she wondered, or McGonagall in particular? The power to reduce adults into mumbling teenagers once more. She suspected that even if this were an art widely practiced by educators, McGonagall had perfected it.

The arrival of Vega provided a few moment's distraction as Senka and Iliana summarised the situation. Reluctant to listen again, she sat on the bed, taking Hermione's hand. She brushed an errant lock of hair back, her mind turning to moments during the past few weeks were she'd done the same.

Lost in memories, no less fond for being so new, she was still sitting on the bed holding Hermione's hand when Headmistress Minerva McGonagall strode in, trailing Madame Pomfrey, the Hogwart's nurse. Fleur released her girlfriend's hand, hopping up to greet the new arrivals.

"Fleur," she said, graciously taking her hand, "I'm pleased to see you have the place in much better order."

"Thank you, headmistress," she said, shaking Madame Pomfrey's hand as well. "It's a lovely cottage."

"Getting there," McGonagall agreed. "Let me know if there's aught we can do to help. Now! What on earth has happened to Miss Granger?"

A much more detailed retelling than had been afforded Vega followed. Pomfrey quizzed her on illnesses and fevers while McGonagall enquired after threats and enemies.

"What about Skeeter?" Senka asked, with a guilty expression. She'd heard how her prevention of the journalist's animagus transformation had led to the noxious woman directing her anger at Hermione, with the result that she'd fled to Australia much more quickly than she might have otherwise.

"It's something to consider," the headmistress agreed. "We'll proceed."

The next two hours passed quickly, spells to detect curses and jinxes floating through the air. The scent of magic was strong in the cramped space, causing Vega to open all the windows and McGonagall to cast an expansion charm on the room itself. Fleur watched, quite awed, as the headmistress worked.

She began with simple charms and incantations, demanding any spells with foul intent be revealed. When this proved fruitless, she called on more subtle and esoteric methods, techniques which Fleur had read about but never witnessed. Grim and growing grimmer, the witch tugged at threads in the weave of the air around and the ground below. She paused and, after a long moment of silence, spoke.

"This is most odd," McGonagall commented slowly. "There is magic at work here but there is no evil intent behind it. I see no reason why she should not waken. Puzzling indeed."

"And vexing," Vega huffed, her arms folded.

"Indeed," Iliana mused, pursing her lips. "You have never seen anything similar, Madame?"

Pomfrey shook her head, seemingly out of her depth. "I don't understand it. I've never seen the like. Could it be some sort of muggle illness?" she mused.

"If it is, then it is beyond our experience and expertise. I'd rather not involve muggles," McGonagall grimaced, "though there is someone we may call, if it comes to that."

Fleur sighed, weary, and sat back beside Hermione. She laid her hand over Hermione's, running her thumb over the smooth bumps of her knuckles. The room was quiet, those present lost in thought. Fleur sat gazing at the sooty lashes flickering over her lover's cheeks, her heart sore and scalded. "She's dreaming."

Senka, perched on the opposite side of the bed, smiled at her. "She is. Sweet dreams, I'm sure."

Fleur frowned. "I hope so."

"Fleur, you mentioned a spell, after the Battle," the little queen said, after a moment. "Could this have something to do with our current predicament? I mean, is that what the headmistress is detecting?"

Fleur blinked. She hadn't considered that, at all. McGonagall peered at her through her spectacles, dark eyes stern and curious. She'd obviously seen the evidence of the ritual on Hermione, which surprised Fleur somewhat. It had lasted so long?

It had been a spell of protection, cast to keep Hermione safe from the viciousness of the war. That it lingered stood as testament to its strength but little else. How could it affect her sleep? Fleur frowned, contemplating the notion for a long moment.

"I don't think so."

"Spell?" McGonagall inquired. Iliana raised an eyebrow, too. Fleur swallowed thickly, not wishing to enter into a conversation about that night. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"A spell of protection," she said, quietly, still chafing Hermione's knuckles. "I cast it before she left Shell Cottage."

"What sort of a spell?" Iliana asked, peering at her queen. Senka shrugged and Fleur realised, with a brief flash of insight, that no one else had a clue about the nature of the spell. At all. They had no idea what they were asking or what kind of a conversation they were about to engage in.

She swallowed. Maybe they'd be tactful.

"I'd be interested in hearing that, too," the petite monarch said mildly. Fleur bit back a groan.

She worried the inside of her lip and was mortified to feel a blush heating her traitorous face. Vega's eyebrows shot up and she snorted with laughter, clearly divining the meaning.

So much for tact.

Senka scolded her before turning back to Fleur with an apologetic expression on her face. "Fleur, I know this is difficult but perhaps this could help Hermione. Please tell us."

Iliana shifted her great wings, sighing. "Did you sacrifice something other than your hair for this girl?"

Fleur's intensifying blush was all the answer any of the Veela needed. McGonagall's face was stoney and Fleur wondered if there any way she could Apparate herself and Hermione out of the situation. Maybe Bill would be able to help them.

Madame Pomfrey cleared her throat. "An offering? I'm afraid I'm a bit lost."

Senka winced. "Um… there are many spells of protection known to us that involve er… We give something in exchange for what we need."

Pomfrey still appeared baffled and Iliana glared at Fleur, frowning mightily. "Does it serve Miss Granger to beat around the bush? All of us here will keep what we next hear in utter confidence, is that acceptable?"

Frantic nodding ensued and Fleur gripped Hermione's hand.

"To speak plainly. Fleur, you made an offering of your maidenhead," Iliana huffed. "I'm quite glad your mother isn't here to hear this."

Senka winced at Vega, who looked suitably reprimanded for her brash behaviour. Iliana folded her arms. McGonagall had two blotches of red sitting high on her cheeks and her mouth was drawn into a thin line. Pomfrey looked as though she might faint and was led to sit by Vega.

"Well, it's not the end of the world," Vega said, trying to diffuse the tension. "I mean, it's a powerful component but you didn't, you know, do it on the Solstice or anything."

Iliana and McGonagall slapped her forehead and covered her mouth, respectively. "No," Iliana groaned, "not a solstice. But the Battle was fought at the end of Beltaine, won the following morning. When, precisely, did you carry out this spell, Fleur?"

Fleur swallowed nervously. "On the eve."

"After midnight?"

"Probably."

Iliana let out a strangled sound, though took a deep breath, appearing as though she was gearing up to say something. Or shout.

"Well, that's not the worst," Senka interrupted, clearly trying to inject some levity into the situation. "I mean, it's not like you conducted this ritual in a temple or within a sacred henge!"

"No!" Fleur agreed, nodding her head. "Definitely not."

"So where did this ill-advised and shockingly risky endeavor occur?" McGonagall bit, her tone frosty.

Fleur felt the blood flow from her face, the stern headmistress of Hogwarts peering over the rims of her spectacles. She was pale with anger and Fleur's mouth felt utterly dry.

"On the beach."

Vega tried, quite unsuccessfully, to hide a snort of mirth. Senka sent a small, stinging fireball to snap against the skin of her calf.

"_'Neath stars on earth, by burns in flames_," McGonagall muttered sourly. "Tell me you didn't light a fire."

Fleur swallowed, remembering now her little moment of whimsy and desire to see Hermione's lovely flames again.

"_I_ did not," she said, quietly, glancing down at her lover.

McGonagall's face sagged. "So she was involved in an integral part of the setting of the spell, then?"

Fleur opened her mouth to argue that of _course_ Hermione hadn't been involved when the realisation walloped into her that she had been, very much so.

"With twin core wands, no less," Iliana sighed. McGonagall paled.

"Well, that does complicate matters somewhat," Senka continued, "but at least you didn't do anything crazy like bind yourselves with blood."

Fleur supposed her visage must have portrayed her utter misery and the room exploded with questions.

* * *

Well. As always, your thoughts are most welcome so please, leave a review! Let me know what you think.


	3. Chapter 3

Having spent some time in this place, one comes to realise that it is far from perfect. Never mind the demons in the forest, who are best avoided at all costs, or the shroud of decay constantly hovering at the edges of this world. There is evidence everywhere of destruction and ruin.

The land slopes up from the end of the tree line, past a sturdy wooden cabin. The timber is rough and well fettled, though still pale and unweathered. Pheasants and other game hang beside the open door, sentinels guarding an enticing aroma. Moving up the hill, a line of charred fence posts provide quiet testimony of fire. Did the woods burn?

The meadow leading towards the castle is pitted and rent, scathed by a ruthless hand. Numerous craters gape hungrily, drinking the bright sunlight dripping from overhanging tussocks of grass. They are not fresh, these hungry maws, and some cradle a scattering of weeds as eager docks and dandelions find bare ground. Others, however, are utterly devoid of life. Chloric grass recedes from their edges and not even the meanest toadstool can find a home within. Dark wounds in the sunny, vital world.

Onwards. The scent of fresh timber and pitch is strong as you pass though a covered bridge. Pausing to admire the view, you catch sight of blackened patches marring the castle walls. In places, the mortar and masonry has fallen, tumbled to the base of the dry moat. The heaps are not yet overgrown, so they cannot be terribly old, and adjacent bare patches of earth suggest other piles have been removed.

At the end of the bridge is a short passage which leads into a courtyard. Within it, laid out neatly and in a highly organised fashion, lies more masonry. Columns and arches, fireplaces and flagstones, plinths and capitals and other chunks of stone are set in tidy rows. A careful eye would note chalk markings on many, though few could decipher them. Roof slates are stacked in a corner, their rough edges appearing frosty despite the warmth of the day.

The scent of mortar and lime, sawn timber and pitch, is heavy in the air. Much was broken, it's clear, but being put to right again. The sun is high in the sky and there is much that can be accomplished on a fine summer morning.

You wake gladly, ready to begin your day. Though you'll not know why, it will be more productive than most.

* * *

**Ivory and Horn: Chapter 3**

* * *

_The fifth time it happened, she thought it was the guilt_

* * *

Brisbane's night air was chilly against Hermione's skin, though not uncomfortably so. A light jacket provided adequate warmth as she wandered down a wide, tree-lined street. As she went, she moved between pools of flickering, buzzing orange light. The indigo shadows between were thick and viscous, thrumming with the hiss of wind and distant traffic. Here and there, bulbs glowed on front doors or porches, little islands bobbing in the murmurous gloom. Her passage roused dogs, who lifted their voices in impotent fury.

She was not entirely sure why she was walking down a street. Something, some memory, was tugging at her mind, nipping at the edges of consciousness. Was she supposed to be somewhere? Was she supposed to meet someone? The pavement was dusty, leaves tumbling underfoot as she continued on her way. The lights before her shone brightly and part of her was sure, entirely certain, that if she turned around, there would be nothing but velvet darkness behind.

_I've been here before_, she reminded herself as she walked through the mouth of a cul de sac. She couldn't recall when or why, though, and so continued. After a short distance the road widened, its end crowned by small, neatly tended houses. She paused, staring at the second bungalow on the left.

The memory came to her of why she'd once come here and trepidation welled in her chest. She spun on her heel and was not at all pleased to have been proven right. Beyond the bounds of the nearest streetlamp lay an impenetrable darkness, light swallowed by the starving night. The quiet susurration of the wind became a clamorous gale. The yapping of irritable pets became the baying of hounds.

_Onwards, then._

Though she was loathe to do so, she advanced towards the bungalow. It was quite pleasant to behold, situated in a tidy and well-kept garden bordereded by trees. A light glowed on the veranda and, heart racing, she entered through the unlocked door.

Dread filled her, robbing her breath and clenching her chest. She knew what awaited her. Or rather, who. She had come here one night as guest of the house's sole occupant, a college student named Mandy. At the time, she'd every intention of sleeping with the other woman. The band of anxiety tightened as she tiptoed down the hallway. She didn't want to see. She didn't want to be reminded.

She couldn't bear to relive it.

Yet she was still moving. Unwilling though she was, her feet traced an inexorable path towards the end of the hall. The light from the front door was spent, though a dim light shone at the bottom of the corridor.

The bedroom door was ajar. Postcards from every corner of the world and unmounted water colour prints lined the walls. The room was cluttered but filled with fascinating objects and small works of art. The bureau and the mirror above it were festooned with multi-coloured fairy lights, which provided the only illumination. She remembered suddenly how lonely it had made her to see muggle Christmas lights. How they reminded her of her parents and the empty house they'd once shared.

Two figures were reclined on the bed, embracing each other and oblivious to her presence. They were fully clothed, for the moment, though Hermione was little relieved by the observation. Mandy's dark hair, bronze and copper in the twinkling lights, glimmered as she moved. Her back faced Hermione and she remembered how those shoulders had felt under her hands. How strong despite being so lean.

Her heart was in her throat and she pressed her hand over her mouth.

She wanted to leave, to go and find Fleur and apologise to her. To beg forgiveness for her silly, juvenile mistake. A part of her, an awful part, wasn't sure that she should bother. Fleur was, after all, married to Bill and had given no indication of an intention to leave him. What would she care? It wasn't as though they could be together. It wasn't as though Fleur was _allowed_ to be jealous. She had no reason to feel ashamed.

Still, despite all that, she didn't want to see this from the outside. The inside had been bad enough.

Mandy laughed, her voice clear and lilting, as she was rolled onto her back. She reached for her lover, chuckling warmly. Hermione gasped, though, because it wasn't _her_ who sat atop the other woman.

Fleur was panting, her face a study in concentration, as Hermione supposed hers had been. She was tousled and breathless, eyes shining in the dim light. She clumsily tugged her t-shirt off and tossed it behind her, her flushed chest heaving.

Hermione sucked in deep breath and took a step backwards. It was all right. This was where it ended. She could remember now. She'd been brave enough to take her top off before she'd been overwhelmed with guilt and remorse and a deluge of memories. Before the thought of Fleur, and of what could have been, had drowned her reason.

She'd _tried_ to forget. To even _begin_ to move on.

In a mortifying turn of events, she'd ended up crying on a near stranger's bed, lamenting the loss of something she'd believed had much potential.

Mandy, bless her, had made tea and patiently listened to her.

But Fleur did not repeat her own actions. She laughed and tugged at the buttons on the other woman's shirt, barely pausing before she buried her face in the crook of her neck. Mandy's back arched and she moaned, loudly.

Hermione pressed her hands over her eyes, willing them to stop. Willing her ears to block out the sound. Her voice was robbed, her throat tight. She stumbled backwards, wanting desperately to leave. She tripped over her own feet and went sprawling onto her backside, hands flying out to try to cushion her fall. Her eyes shot open in reflex and she felt the urge to scream well within her.

The pair on the bed had separated, she saw, but only to shed their remaining clothes. Fleur's face was serious, focused entirely on the woman in front of her. Hermione knew what it was like to be the centre of that attention. To have Fleur focused solely on her. The band around her chest tightened again and though she was sure she was screaming, no sound could be heard.

Arms and legs entwined in the dim light. Fleur's hand never wavered. Hermione watched as it dropped from an arched neck, trailing along the ebb and flow of ribs beneath shadowed flesh.

She remembered that hand in her own. On her shoulder or wrist. Over her breast and thigh.

She watched, though her heart was sick. Echoes on her own skin, from the sight before her and a night beneath stars, whispered at the very edge of her heart.

This couldn't be real. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. It made no _sense_! This wasn't real. Fleur was at home, half way around the world. Far away from her.

So very far.

Suddenly, the world fragmented. An alarm blared close by, the shrill buzz demolishing the scene around her.

She woke with stunning rapidity, gasping for air as tears rolled over her cheeks.

* * *

"Quiet!" Vega shouted crossly, after a period of disorganised chatter, most of which had been directed at Fleur. She was pathetically grateful for the intervention and took a step back from the others. "Let's get this straight. Fleur, on the eve of a cross quarter day-"

"Beltaine no less!"

"Headmistress, please! On that night, likely after midnight, you drew a circle in the sand of the beach. Hermione lit the perimeter with conjured flames, using a wand twinned to yours. You then, in your own name, called for her three times. Three times she answered yes. You then sealed the perimeter with your blood and proceeded to enter into a ritual where each of you," she coughed, fishing around for some delicate phrase. Fleur frowned, knowing full well that the warrior wasn't particularly dainty in most matters.

"Uh, well, you had sex. You then slept, both of you, within the circle and didn't leave it until the next morning, when you did so hand in hand. Am I missing anything?"

"Blood magic! Sexual magic!" Pomfrey shrieked, with such pitch and force several people turned to Hermione to ensure that she hadn't awoken.

"This is darker and more potent magic than a child should know!" McGonagall shouted, furious. Her face was blotchy with anger and her slender hands shook as she clenched them into fists. Fleur found herself quite glad that the witch was unarmed, for the moment. Harry had once told her that McGonagall didn't believe in using Transfiguration as a method of punishment but she wondered if the enraged woman wasn't about to change her mind.

"Fleur is no child," Senka said, softly but firmly. "And neither is Hermione. Blood is no more dangerous than water, when magic is led by a true heart." She paused and smiled at Fleur. "And I have no doubt that _both_ of them had nothing but true intentions, entering into this."

"There's nothing inherently wrong with sexual magic, either," Vega offered, arms folded over her chest. "We shouldn't be ashamed by the reality of these bodies. People have sex! What news! How else do you think we all got here?" McGonagall's lips were drawn into a bloodless line and her eyes narrowed behind her spectacles.

"It is potent, though," Iliana admitted, trying to draw the Headmistress's attention, and ire, from Vega. "And Fleur was not the only one involved in its casting. This is old, ancient magic. It follows the will before it follows words. Who knows what depths you have plumbed with this, little daughter. Who knows what other themes may have been composed in Miss Granger's heart?"

They were silent for a moment and Fleur, as perplexed as she was, found the complexity of situation begin to dawn on her. She'd believed that she was offering protection; taking a moment in time to announce to the universe that Hermione Granger was under her guardianship. She'd used quite showy methods to garner this attention, true. Perhaps even gone a little bit overboard.

She moved to the side of the bed, perching beside her sleeping lover. She reached for her hand, comforted by its softness and warmth. She was struck, as she often was, by Hermione's beauty. Her skin was lightly tanned, freckles accenting her cheeks and nose. Her lips were parted, her breathing slow and even. Fleur wondered, fleetingly, if something as simple as a kiss would wake her.

She wouldn't presume to be Hermione's one true love, however. Surely you had to be officially seeing each other for more than two weeks to earn that sobriquet. She brushed a strand of hair from in front of Hermione's twitching eyes, smiling despite herself.

She hadn't even realised that by using Hermione's little flames they'd be bound by not only blood, but fire too. Bound by both of them. Also, though she was _not_ going to admit this unless she had _absolutely_ no other choice, they had reciprocated. What Fleur had offered, Hermione had taken and vice versa. It hadn't been a one sided endeavour, at all.

Fleur sucked in a breath, feeling her brow furrow. But what did it mean? Had Hermione inadvertently offered to protect her as well? Were they each now under the other's aegis?

"It will be some time before we fully understand what has occurred," McGonagall said, interrupting her thoughts. "But does any of this help us now? How do we wake Ms Granger? I mean," she scoffed, "she's obviously enjoying her dreams but this is ridiculous.

There was a long moment of silence, much too long a moment, Fleur realised. She lifted her head to see Senka and Iliana staring at one another, grim concern creeping into the latter's eyes. She frowned, glancing over to Vega. The warrior's head was bowed, her gaze studiously avoiding all and sundry.

"What is it?" Fleur asked, her voice shrill to her ears. "What?"

"She been dreaming without pause since we entered," Iliana said quietly. "And we have been here for hours. Has she been dreaming since you tried to rouse her this morning?"

Fleur blinked. "She was dreaming when I first tried to wake her… At other times, too."

"That's not normal," Pomfrey muttered, apparently glad to offer advice. "She shouldn't be dreaming constantly. You must be mistaken."

"Does she have odd dreams, Fleur?" Senka asked, as gently as she could. "Where does she visit?"

Hermione's hand was warm and dry in her own but without tone. It was completely limp and still. "I don't know. She hasn't spoken about any." She frowned, trying to recall. Hermione had once commented, idly, about having odd dreams after the Battle but hadn't been inclined to elaborate. Fleur, having had some bizarre dreams in the aftermath of the war herself, hadn't pressed the issue. It hadn't seemed at all important, at the time.

"Are her nights peaceful?"

"I don't know," Fleur sighed, embarrassed to feel herself blushing again. "We have not spent as many together as you all seem to think."

Senka's mouth twitched upwards, a hint of a smile. "Forgive me for my presumption." She turned to Iliana, who had folded her arms over her feathered chest. The veela inhaled sharply, shaking her head before fixing Fleur with a hard stare.

"What of _your_ dreams?" she asked. "Are they peaceful?"

Fleur frowned. Was she going to be left with no secrets? She swallowed thickly. If it was to help Hermione, she'd suffer whatever indignity needed. Iliana, thankfully, sensed her hesitation. "Very well. Have you dreamt of Miss Granger?"

Fleur nodded, but did not elaborate, unsure of where to start. "Well," Senka said gently, "surely that's no surprise? They are very fond of one another."

Iliana rolled her eyes but held her tongue. "Tell me, have there been any that were more vivid? More _real_. Where it felt as though the world was presented without veils? Brighter?"

The bank. Fleur inhaled sharply. She hadn't thought about that in quite a long time.

"Sharper? More visceral?"

The cabin.

She flinched at the memory and Iliana leaned forwards, her silver eyes trained intently on her own. "Fleur? Tell me."

She was quiet for a long moment, collecting her wits before she spoke. When she did, it felt as though some other person was recounting the tale. That another agent was at play. She suspected that even if she lived to be two hundred, she'd never forget that nightmare. It would always be present, jagged and clear, in her memory.

"I dreamt I was walking over a moor," she said, quietly, turning her gaze back to Hermione. "It was desolate. Nothing to be seen for miles around. I followed a track to a cabin. There," she swallowed thickly, "there was a gibbet, hung with animals. She called them vermin but they truly weren't.

Vega frowned and opened her mouth to speak but McGonagall shushed her.

"The cabin was small, with a pile of rotting wood outside it. I went inside, though I was unarmed and… and there was a wolf there. It was Fenrir Greyback, even though it wasn't night time. There was a woman there too, Bellatrix Lestrange."

She felt tears well at the memory and swiped at them with her free hand. "Hermione, she… she was there too. She had been…" a sob rose in her chest and she fought to speak around it. "She was hurt."

She lifted Hermione's hand, warm and soft but so _still_ to her lips, kissing the tips of her fingers. The room around her, and its inhabitants, concerned her little. She laid her free hand on Hermione's chest, feeling it lifted with the soft movement's of her lover's breathing, tickled by the beat of her heart.

"Fleur?"

The voice sounded like her grandmother, she supposed, but seemed terribly far away. As though she were hearing it through treacle or a great fog. Hermione's pulse was strong beneath her fingers and she longed to have her back. To see her eyes open again. To hear her laugh and scold her for being so maudlin.

"Fleur?"

"It was strange," she said, softly, the words falling from her like a script written by someone else. "Bellatrix was triumphant. She spoke of the victory of Voldemort as though it had actually happened. She said that Hermione remembered her… I knew it was a dream, I realised it, but she… she did not think it was. She…"

She felt a firm hand on her shoulder but did not take her eyes off Hermione. "She called me a trespasser." Her words were muffled by a roaring noise. A deep, dull sound echoed through her skull, casting the world around her into strange aural shadow. The grip on her shoulder tightened, and a small part of her wondered why.

"She said I was not summoned. She wore the gowns of a lady… She had painted her face and lips… She killed her. Hermione…"

From the depths of the roaring, beneath the thrumming and ringing and tumult sounded the deep, regular beat of Hermione's heart.

"I called for her… I called so many times for her… Hermione…" Her vision faded around the edges, colour leeching from the outside in. The world was melting into indistinct shapes with blurred edges. Hermione's face, too, was fading.

"No!" she shouted, or whispered. "Hermione!"

"FLEUR!" The sound held the hint of a scream but was softer on the ear than cotton on the skin. Were other hands reaching for her, too?

"Hermione…"

The world darkened. Hermione's face faded from before hers. Sensation was robbed and she felt herself adrift, free of her body. There was neither heat nor coldness to shock the skin. There was no movement of air or hint of scent. There was no colour and no form.

There was no sound, but for the roaring in her ears and the pounding of Hermione's heart.

* * *

_The sixth time it happened, she thought it was the end of the world_

* * *

She was not going to sleep, Hermione had decided. If she was going to be plagued by nightmares, so be it but she wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of entering willingly into slumber. Since leaving Hogwarts after the Battle, her nights had been filled with uncertainty, doubt and vivid dreams. Despite being quite surreal, they were tangible and substantial, tending to linger long into the day rather than fade on wakening.

"It's probably just the bloody travel," she muttered, fiddling idly with the moonstone from Fleur's necklace. She still didn't know why she hadn't returned it, or had Harry do so. Perhaps it would be the only part of Fleur that she'd ever have. Dismissing that miserable thought, she tucked it back into her pocket.

She tipped her head up to the heavens, marvelling at the new configuration and incredible brightness of the starlight. The dark veils of night were pierced by dazzling, burning diamonds. They twinkled and flickered as they trod their slow march towards morning. She leaned back upon her elbows, a modicum of peace entering her sore heart.

Why couldn't they have organised a school trip to this part of the world, to appreciate such beauty? Why limit their study of astronomy to one _tiny_ patch of sky? Surely an exchange wouldn't have been that difficult.

"Probably more bother than it's worth," she mused, with a touch of regret.

"You know," a voice croaked, "you really shouldn't talk to yourself."

She turned, blinking in surprise at the sight of a large, glossy raven perched on a groyne twenty yards away. He spread his wings and gave a few idle flaps, bringing himself closer. Memories, though fragmented, returned and her heart sank.

Hermione groaned, burying her head in her arms. "I fell asleep, didn't I?" So much for staying awake!

"You sure did, kid," the raven replied, hopping onto a craggy boulder beside her, more or less at eye level. "We keep meeting. It's weird."

"You're not the one talking to a raven," she sighed. She tucked her heels against her backside, resting her folded arms and chin on her knees. She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. He seemed to be in no particular hurry and was eyeing her carefully, his dark headed canted to one side. "You're Matthew."

"Oh,"' he squawked, jerking his head back. "You know me?"

"No, but the dog called you that."

He clacked his beak. "Flea bitten loud mouth. Tossin' names around like that…" He mumbled, trailing off into barely audible swearing and she bit her lip to keep from laughing. He still didn't seem inclined to leave and she wondered if he'd be able to explain her dreams, of late.

"Where are we?" Hermione asked, starting with the simplest question that came to mind. The beach looked identical to the one upon which she'd evidently fallen asleep but it paid to be sure.

"We, my friend, are on the nightward shores. Far enough from the skerries that we can't see 'em. Which might be a good thing or a bad thing."

"I don't know where any of that is," Hermione explained, patiently. "I mean, am I still in Australia?"

"Ha! No! I mean, this place is more like Australia than most places here but… No." He hopped forward, his beady eyes intelligent and, somehow, incredulous. "You really don't know where you are?"

"Is one supposed to, when dreaming?"

"You should at least know that you're _in_ The Dreaming," he said, settling his feathers. "Especially when you seem so… I don't know, present."

Hermione frowned, not quite understanding how she could seem absent when sitting before the bird. "All right. That wasn't very helpful. Let's try another. Why am I here?"

"Because you need to come here," Matthew replied, snapping his wings out. "Everyone does. We spend giant chunks of our lives here, you know."

She nodded, accepting that as fact, though something nagged at the corners of her mind, still. "But it's different now, why? Why does it feel so strange?"

"Now that, lady, I can't answer." He settled his glossy wings and took another little hop towards her. "Why do you think you're here?"

Hermione sighed. "I don't know. Because I'm asleep, I suppose?"

"C'mon!" he drawled. "You can do better than that!"

She adjusted her grip on her legs and moved her chin, curling into herself. It was a good question, in fairness to the bird. She briefly closed her eyes, gathering herself.

"Honestly, I think I'm looking for someone. Someone I miss. Someone I want to see again and would, if it wasn't such a bad idea."

"Someone you love?" the raven coughed.

"Yes." Hermione said, quietly. "Someone I love. I love her very much."

The raven bobbed his head. "Well, go see her, then! Find her. What the hell are you sitting dreaming about my devilish good looks for?"

Hermione chuckled, though her heart sat heavily in her chest. "I think found her before, somewhere that felt just like this. A much smaller beach, mind you. I was thinking about her, before I fell asleep."

"You're not going to find her here. Wake up and get a move on!" Matthew seemed a bit more lively, hopping on the rock, starlight sweeping over his plumage like colourful spots of oil racing over water.

Hermione laughed sadly at that. "Move on… that's what I should be doing. I can't be with her. She has someone already so… that's that. The only place I can see her now is in here."

"Well, I don't think that's a good idea," he said, firmly. "You can't spend your whole time dreaming. So she has someone? People break up! You're young, why the hell are you moping around here with me? What's her girlfriend got that you don't?"

"Well," Hermione chuckled, "for one, he's a man. For the other, he married her."

The raven scoffed. "You know, even when I was a man, a ring on a finger was never a huge deterrent."

"A ring?"

Her heart leapt in her chest. The pinpoints of the stars grew, expanding through the void of night. Confluent, blinding and endless. Dawn spreading over the world and through her mind. Her breath caught and she clenched her fists, knowing that her dream was ended.

She woke on a beach, a gemstone clasped in her hand.

* * *

"Curses!" Iliana growled, "damned fool of a girl!"

"What on earth just happened?" Pomfrey demanded, bustling to the edge of the bed, where Fleur was now sprawled on top of Hermione, sound asleep.

Iliana swore in the language of the Veela and rolled her grand daughter onto her back, peering at her eyes. They were flickering, the young woman lost in the depths of a dream. She lifted the lids and rubbed between her eyes, though these actions provoked no response. She swore again.

"What's happened?" Pomfrey repeated, her voice demanding. "Is it contagious?"

"It shouldn't be," Iliana muttered, "yet somehow, it is."

"Then we need to evacuate, immediately!" the nurse cried.

"No, we don't," Iliana sighed. "It's not contagious. This is something which may happen to certain Veela."

"Might I remind you that Hermione Granger is not Veela!"

Iliana rolled her eyes and folded her arms. "Thank you. I had quite forgotten the fact, in the face of an impossible event!"

Senka cleared her throat, even as she smoothed Fleur's hair back from her face. "It must have something to do with the spell they cast."

Iliana nodded her agreement. "This has become more than we can manage. Your highness," she said, bowing to Senka. "With your permission, I will leave as soon as possible. I must speak to the High Queen."

Senka flinched. Vega coughed, a frown knurling her brow. "Must you?"

Iliana glared and folded her arms. "Now is not the time for me to remind both of you that despite your courage, talent and status, I'm still your elder. This is clearly beyond our ability to handle. I'll leave under cover of darkness."

Senka looked as though she was making an enormous effort to keep a pout off her face. Vega seemed worried. Iliana was not entirely surprised by the sentiment but was relieved that neither was offering a more strenuous objection.

Iliana sighed and turned to the headmistress of Hogwarts. "I don't suppose I could trouble you for a port key, could I?"

Minerva McGonagall was as white as a sheet, trembling and pale. She'd clearly not heard a word of the conversation and did not respond to Iliana's request. Her eyes were fixed on Fleur, fear and terror apparent. "How… how did she know?"

Senka blinked, clearly pleased by the distraction. "Know what?"

"After… before, when Voldemort attacked the Potters and was defeated, several of his most loyal servants captured two of our own." Her eyes were bright and her slender hands shook. "Frank and Alice Longbottom. They tortured them, tortured them beyond the point where they could retain a grasp on their sanity."

She took a steadying breath. "It took us days and days to find them. And when we did, I was one of those dispatched to retrieve them. We found them in a cabin, on a moor. It had once belonged to a distant relative of the Black family."

There was a long moment of silence. Vega's face was grim. Senka moved closer to her, taking her hand in her own. Pomfrey's head was bowed, her shoulders trembling.

"We never spoke of it. I wanted to burn that shack to the ground but we had prisoners and poor Frank and Alice…"

She lifted ferocious, flashing eyes to Iliana. "How did Fleur see it? In that dream? She saw a real place! Is that where Bellatrix Lestrange took Hermione?!"

Iliana heaved a sigh. "I do not know. From what little Fleur has said, I do not think so."

"Well? What did she see?" Vega demanded. Iliana swallowed. She knew how fond the both the warrior and queen were of her grand daughter. She drew a breath, turning her attention to the pair of witches laid out on the bed. Fleur looked so much smaller, so slight, when she wasn't moving. Hermione appeared even tinier; petite and delicate against the white sheets. They both looked very, very young.

Iliana sighed, sorrow filling her heart. "As impossible as it may be, it seems that Fleur saw a vision of a future."

"The future?" Pomfrey gasped.

"No," Iliana reassured her, lifting her eyes briefly. "_A_ future. A possibility. She saw the death of the one she loved."

There was a long, horrible, pregnant silence. Senka swallowed.

"What are you saying? That Hermione was supposed to die?"

"We're all supposed to die," Iliana reminded, softly.

"The real question is when."

* * *

So. Thoughts? Screams of frustration? Anyone see it coming from a country mile? Just to clarify, just in case there's even a shadow of a doubt, all Hermione's dreams were in chronological order. The most recent took place before she left Australia to come home and confront Fleur/snog her in the kitchen.

'Til next time! Thanks for all the reviews and comments! Much appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4, Part I_

* * *

The sky is overcast, as though in lead. A shadow play in reverse, where broken patches of rose and sulphur cloud drift before a dark background. Evening's ragged heralds traversing vivid wet slate as the crimson sun flares just above the horizon. Lavender mingles with robin's egg, layering a complicated backdrop for the castle's silhouette. Rain is scattered on paroxysmal gusts of wind, coughing over the choppy steel lake. Drops fall in rhythmic waves, nimble fingers drumming against the ground.

A tall, neat figure appears, striding with steady purpose. Robes flutter around it, dark as they billow and bellen in the evening breeze. A pointed hat perches atop this person's head and light glints off lenses below its brim.

She, for it is clearly a woman, does not pay you the slightest attention. She moves with austere dignity, a native poise uncommon in your experience. Her face is impassive, though lined and careworn.

She passes and, lacking any better way to pass your sleeping hours, you follow. She stops atop a small hillock and clasps her hands over her chest. You follow her gaze and spy a small structure. The little building is crimson beneath shadowed trees, a ruddy beacon glowing in the dusk.

The woman beside you covers her mouth, choking back a sob.

Around it stand neatly cut stones, arrayed in tidy rows. They shine with the last of the day's light, almost translucent. Marmoreal monoliths standing guard over wet grass.

The realisation comes, reluctantly, that it is a graveyard. How can such a thing mar the castle grounds, you wonder. After all, what fairy tale character is willing to rest below a slab of cold stone? Such things have no place in this world.

The woman beside you takes several breaths to calm herself before she turns away. The sun has descended below the spine of a nearby mountain range. Clouds dart with great urgency across the dimming sky, the wind raising its voice as the scene changes.

The highlights and accents provided by the clouds are gone. The sky is flat and dark, smudges of grey fleece providing the only texture. It is cold and you wrap your arms around yourself. No moon and no stars brighten the night. No hint of life is betrayed as you stand alone.

The gravestones fade from view and an awful heaviness settles in your stomach. Surely this place has not been touched by woe and death? There must be _some_ corners of the world safe from the march of time.

Surely there is somewhere where you can lay aside the knowledge, the deep abiding certainty, that all journeys must have an end. That all roads lead to the same, inevitable destination.

You wake, limbs heavy and stiff. You feel as though you haven't rested. Joints creaking, you begin the day.

* * *

_The seventh time it happened, she found she was not alone_

* * *

Hermione inhaled, breathing in the scent of clean linen and warm air. She squirmed into a more comfortable position beneath the duvet, sleepily reaching out for Fleur. She sheets beside her were cold and she sighed. Had Fleur gotten up already? She felt a pout begin to form as she drew the other witch's pillow into her arms, curling around it. Birdsong filled the air around her, as well as the heaving rush of the ocean.

As soft and as pleasant as her position was the pillow was a poor substitute for her girlfriend and, after a few moments, Hermione sat up, rubbing her eyes and yawning. The room in which she found herself was bright and airy with light pouring in through several windows.

She frowned. The room was large, with windows on two adjacent walls sporting very handsome curtains. Hadn't she gone to sleep somewhere different? Somewhere with small windows and a towel for a blind? The memory came of a pleasant dinner in the Cottage-Under-Ha, followed by an early night. Of Fleur sighing tremulously against her ear and neck, her mouth burning as she pressed languid kisses against her skin.

Wary, but not particularly frightened, she brushed her hair back, her hand trailing over her throat. Carefully, she stood from the bed, confusion winning an emphatic victory over concern. Where ever she was, it seemed very pleasant but that meant almost nothing.

The room was familiar, she realised as she took in her surroundings. Folding her arms across her chest, she tried to recall when last she'd seen this place. She _had_ been here before, hadn't she? Annoyed, she started forward, resolved to try and figure out what on earth was happening.

She moved to the foot of the bed and saw an empty moses basket, blankets neatly folded over the end. An infant had rested there, she remembered. An infant with blue eyes.

"I'm dreaming," she whispered, kneeling down and touching the soft weave of the blankets. Her disbelief was strong but could not compare with an overwhelming sense of familiarity, of deja vu. "I've been here before!"

She sat back on her heels for a moment, her thoughts unusually sluggish as she looked around. The last time she'd been here, Fleur had appeared. Mussed and groggy, her hair unbound.

Fleur. She'd been searching for Fleur! Jumbled, dim memories surfaced within her mind. She'd woken, hadn't she? In the darkness of the Cottage-Under-Ha. She'd been gripped by loneliness and wished to see Fleur.

She scrambled up and out of the room, into a corridor, whipping her head around. Thick carpet underfoot muffled her footsteps as she rushed about. She stood on a small landing, facing another open door. The room beyond clearly belonged to a child and was, equally clearly, empty.

Why, she wondered, was she searching for Fleur? She'd seen her mere hours before! She rested a hand on the doorjamb, gathering her thoughts. She'd been searching for Fleur, hadn't she? Desperately searching for her. Her thoughts were muddled and confused.

Had she found her? Had her return to Britain been the dream? Was she still in Australia? She bit her lip and shook her head. No. She'd most definitely been home. She'd found Fleur. Found so much more, besides.

Turning from the door way, she closed her eyes. She was dreaming. She had to remember that. She'd been lonesome in the night and wished to visit her lover in dreams. Well, she mused unhappily, it seemed someone had granted that particular desire.

She spied the stairs and, lacking anything better to do, descended, calling Fleur's name as she went. The downstairs hall was bright, light from stained glass windows surrounding the door dappling the pale wooden floor. She stuck her head into several rooms but found each empty. The kitchen, tucked into the rear, was neat and tidy. Dishes lay drying on a rack beside the sink and the counter tops were damp, recently cleaned. It was as though the inhabitants had just finished breakfast and stepped out.

Perhaps the person who'd cleaned up was Fleur! Maybe she was still close by. She hurried to the front door, excitement bubbling within her chest. There was a shadow of a memory of desperation and loneliness but it was dim and growing ever more indistinct. She pulled the door open and stepped out into the blinding sunlight.

She knew she was dreaming, but for the moment she couldn't bring herself to care.

* * *

Fleur spun around, quite disorientated and discombobulated. She paused, taking in her surroundings and listening for any sound. After a few moments of gathering her wits, she calmed down, slightly. She seemed to be alone, for the time being, and on familiar ground.

She was, she realised with some puzzlement, dreaming. It was strange. Before, on the other rare occasions that she'd come to the same realisation, it had been after a good deal of time spent within a dream. Often it was the terminal event before waking. This time, she was instantly aware of where she was.

More importantly, she was also aware of _why_. Hermione.

She stood beneath the blackthorn tree from which she'd taken Hermione's wand wood, though in autumn or winter, rather than spring. It appeared a bit more bedraggled than she recalled but held the promise of new growth in bud and bulb. The sand beneath her was scuffed and damp, as though someone had been there.

Well, she supposed, that was true enough. After all, she'd been there before, with Hermione. Her heart thudded under her ribs at the thought of her lover and she stooped to examine the sand. She wasn't very good at tracking, despite the best efforts of many to teach her, but after several long moments, she concluded that _someone_ had wandered downstream.

And that someone, she mused, may well have been Hermione. The memory of standing over her bed in the Cottage-Under-Ha came to her. She'd realised that Hermione was lost and had been filled with an overwhelming urge to find her. She had hazy recollections of Iliana shouting at her and suspected her grandmother would not be pleased when she returned.

Keen to do _anything_ other than stand gawking foolishly, she set off down the stream, trying to follow the footprints. She lost them, frequently, but found them again each time. Searching for her wand, she was very annoyed to realise it wasn't on her person. Eventually she emerged from the copse into a vast, grey waste. The footprints vanished and she paused, wondering where on earth Hermione could have wandered off to.

She sighed, folding her arms. The land, if you could call it that because it seemed more a mist than anything, was bleak and featureless. It was almost impossible to differentiate between land and sky. It was also dreadfully cold, a high wind keening faintly.

"If I were Hermione," she mused, "where would I go?"

She closed her eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath. She unfolded her arms and clenched her fists by her side. She strode forward, frowning and resolute. If Hermione was within the bounds of this place, she was going to find her.

* * *

Iliana was not, in any way, shape or form, a happy woman in that moment. Her foolish grand daughter was passed out, dead to the world, alongside her girlfriend. Senka and Vega were fretting over her impending voyage back to the High Queen and McGonagall looked ready to hex her.

She rubbed her forehead, exhausted despite the early hour.

"How on earth," McGonagall demanded, "can Fleur see the future? Any future? do you mean to say she's a seer?"

"It is not something about which I am free to speak in any great depth," Iliana sighed, realising that she would be better off to keep in the good graces of the headmistress. Being secretive now would serve no purpose.

"The Veela have, like centaurs, many experts in divination. Haruspices beyond compare. Augurs who can see days to come in the wheeling of birds. And…" She paused and turned to Senka, speaking in their own language. The petite woman frowned for a moment, thinking before she answered.

"Song bird?"

"Sparrow," Vega offered, shrugging. "It's as good as any."

Iliana nodded. "And sparrows. A haruspex or an augur may learn their arts by means of careful study. They are skills which may be taught but few have the ability to flit through the realm of possibility. That path is dark to most."

"So Fleur is one of these?" McGonagall asked, frowning mightily.

"No, she is not," Iliana replied, folding her arms. "Sparrows must train from they can walk in the waking world. That path is almost as dark now to her as it would be to a muggle."

"And yet she dreams," Vega said, quietly.

"She does." There was a long moment of silence before Iliana spoke again. She'd already sworn the other women to secrecy, she supposed.

"My daughter, Apollonia, found it difficult to conceive. She miscarried several times before Fleur and after her. After so much heartbreak, how could I even raise the possibility of her daughter being taken by the sages? She never knew and so, neither did Fleur. Many may learn to thread those paths but few do."

"But there is still some part of her," Senka mused, "that could have. That perhaps, in another life, would have. If Apolline and Albert, the gods forbid, had been slain in the last war."

Vega frowned. "But not _this_ life."

"No," McGonagall agreed, her voice thin and cold, "but wars such as ours are rare, indeed. Realities can come close to one another. Bleed into one another. The lives we could have lived brush beside the one we do."

"The weave of the world is worn, in places," Iliana agreed, in a bare whisper. "And strands may knot together. Especially if two exceptionally stupid young women cast powerful spells without proper adult supervision."

Vega snorted and the tension eased, somewhat. McGonagall sank heavily into a seat, her hands clasped before her mouth. She appeared dreadfully old, ancient in a way Iliana was not accustomed to associating with the vigorous witch.

"I am not a believer in Divination, I must admit. I've seen too much in the way of charlatans, cheats and frauds to do so. But I confess, in my heart of hearts when I saw Hermione Granger running down the corridor past me in the midst of battle…" the stern witch took a deep, shuddering breath and closed her eyes. "I knew, I _knew_ with utter certainty that she would not survive the night." She swallowed thickly. "And there was no time to say goodbye."

Everyone was silent for a long moment, watching the two young women on the bed before them. Hermione's fingers, resting against the back of Fleur's arm, twitched.

"So there are worlds where Fleur became a seer," Senka said solemnly, "and worlds where Hermione did not survive the war. And worlds where the Dark Lord triumphant sent his loyal followers to slaughter all who opposed his rule."

"The victory in Hogwarts was not a sure thing," Iliana mused. "Had we come much later, we would have found a smoking ruin."

McGonagall was silent for a long moment, opening her eyes again. "Or had we been more careful, no Battle would have been fought there, at all. Our students would still live."

Vega sighed. "So, there are a lot of _what ifs_ and _suppose sos_ and_ I wonders_… What of it? Possible futures and possible pasts spreading out from the mess we found ourselves in. And a quirk of blood that left Fleur more sensitive to it all. A spell dragging Hermione into the middle of it. What's important is waking those two up. So let's do that."

"You know," Senka said, smiling, "my beloved does have a rather lovely way of phrasing things, doesn't she?"

Iliana snorted with dark mirth. "Indeed."

"But," Pomfrey breathed, her face pale, "what has this to do with Fleur and Hermione sleeping?"

Vega seemed intrigued, too, and Senka nodded minutely.

"Because where else would one go," Iliana explained, patiently, "to explore the varied realms of possibility other than the dream world? Where better?"

"And Hermione was pulled in because of the spell?" Pomfrey asked, wringing her hands.

Iliana shrugged. "It would seem so. This is a highly strange situation. I've never heard of the like."

Vega frowned, but remained silent. McGonagall frowned and rubber her forehead, mithered. "Well. As fascinating as I'm sure it is to go tramping the paths of dream, we need to wake them up." She peered at them all in turn over the rims of her spectacles. "Has anyone the foggiest notion of how we should proceed?"

* * *

Hermione's eyes had adjusted sufficiently to resolve a pleasant garden. She tugged the door shut after her and stood on the front step, taking in the scene before her. Flowers of every colour and shade tumbled from neatly tended beds, more species than she could easily name. Birds sang over head and surf boomed nearby, cheerful in the warm sunshine.

She turned, facing the house. The door was painted a bright shade of blue, with brass fixtures gleaming. Two hanging baskets, filled with yet more colourful flora, framed the lintel. The house itself was quite sizable, though neat and freshly painted.

Definitely not Shell Cottage, or even the Cottage-Under-Ha, she mused.

She turned back to the garden and ambled down the gravel path, touching flowers as she went. The scent was rich there, sweet and heady. She couldn't recall if she'd ever smelled something in a dream before, despite making an effort to remember. Her mind, still cloudy, was slowly beginning to clear. She had to remember that she was dreaming, she scolded herself.

Dreaming and searching, she reminded herself. The short wrought iron gate at the end of the path was closed but she approached it, anyway. Fleur wasn't the kind of person to barge through gates and leave them open, after all.

Passing through the gate, she looked up and down the road beyond. It was narrow and seemed rarely used, the grass growing down the middle spotted with daisies. A wooden sign in front of her pointed towards _town_ on the left and _beach_ on the right.

She felt herself smiling, knowing well where Fleur would go, and headed for the beach.

* * *

Fleur had been wandering for some time with great determination, though a complete lack of direction, when she came upon a door. It didn't seem to have bothered with bringing a wall along and Fleur sighed, slightly aggravated. It looked daft, suspended in the air like that.

Dreams, she decided, were quite ridiculous.

But, given that the door was the only object she'd seen in some time, she strode forwards, peering carefully at it. It was plain and white, scuffed in places though generally clean. There was no lock visible and Fleur supposed it was the kind of door you'd see inside a house. Ordinary and uninteresting. She rapped her knuckles against it, then peered around the back. There was nothing behind it, however, just the other side.

Shrugging, Fleur took the handle and opened it. Beyond lay a bedroom, messy but not particularly threatening. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the entirely predictable chain of events. Girding herself, she took a deep breath and strode forward.

Fleur realised several things in quick succession.

Firstly, she was naked.

Secondly, she was not alone.

Thirdly, she had not been naked moments before.

_Damn dreams._

"Um, excuse me," came a startled voice from a nearby bed, "who the hell are you?"

A woman sat in the bed, her dark hair tousled and messy. A sheet was clenched to her chest in a manner suggesting that she, too, was nude. That made Fleur feel marginally better as she stood in her birthday suit.

"I apologise for the intrusion. I'm a bit lost."

"You don't bloody well say!" the woman squeaked. "Again, who are you and what the hell are you doing in my bedroom?"

Fleur raised her hands in what she hoped was a placating gesture. "Now, please. I don't know how I got here, either. My name is Fleur."

The women, who'd been placated by the gesture but not in the manner that Fleur had intended, blinked. Her eyes shot up to meet Fleur's.

"Fleur." She said, flatly. "As in Fleur who knows Hermione?"

"Yes!" Fleur said, excited. "Yes! Do you know Hermione? Have you seen her?"

The other woman rubbed her eyes, confusion clear. "She was here… For a bit. But she isn't any more." She frowned up at Fleur, her dark gaze sharp despite her confusion. "It feels like it just happened, but ages ago at the same time." She blinked. "How can that be?"

Fleur shrugged. "I don't know. I don't understand this place too well." She folded her arms, trying to remain nonchalant. "So you saw Hermione?"

The woman nodded. "I did. But she's not here, now."

Fleur resisted, but only with great effort, the urge to roll her eyes. "Clearly. DId she say where she was headed?" She stepped forward eagerly, causing the other woman to start. "Oh," Fleur said, realising that she was still nude. "Pardon me, do you have any clothes I can borrow?"

"Aren't those yours?" the other woman asked, gesturing to articles flung onto the floor. Fleur frowned, stooping to retrieve them. They were hers indeed, though she had no idea how they'd come to grace this woman's floor.

"How do you know my clothes," Fleur mused as she dressed, "if you don't know me? How do you know my name if you don't recognise my face?"

The other woman shrugged, apparently completely at a loss. "I don't know. I… I met Hermione and she told me about you. I thought it was still that night, to be honest."

Fleur felt a chill run down her spine. Hermione and a naked woman, in the night?

"Ah. Did you two…?" She tugged her jeans shut. "And by the way, what's your name?"

"Amanda," she replied, getting herself more comfortable and watching Fleur hop into her socks with some amusement. "And I thought… I don't know. It's like I remember ten different things."

"Dreams can be tricky like that," Fleur agreed, tugging her top on.

"I'm dreaming?" Amanda asked, raising a carefully sculpted eyebrow. "I guess I am. It's surreal," she mused. She lay herself back down, stretching languidly. She was, Fleur noted with a pang of jealousy, incredibly beautiful. Her dark hair held copper and mahogany highlights, complementing her coffee coloured skin. Her eyes sparkled in the dim light, intelligent despite the fact that she was dreaming.

"You broke her heart," Amanda accused, plainly, propping herself up on her elbow.

"I know," Fleur sighed. "But I'm trying to fix it." She couldn't help but glare at the other woman, who seemed to be adapting quite well to the unusual situation. "I'm sure you made an attempt, too."

Amanda nodded solemnly. "I tried, but she wouldn't let me. I hope, for her sake, she lets you."

"I do, too," Fleur murmured, kicking her feet into her shoes. "Well. I'd best be on my way. Do you know where Hermione went, by any chance?"

"When she left," Amanda frowned, "I think she was headed for the beach. But that was months ago…"

Fleur ran a hand through her hair and nodded, not keen to continue the conversation. She had much more important things to do, after all. "Well, thank you. Sweet dreams."

She opened the bedroom door, plunging into cold, indistinct void between dreams. Amanda's voice called after her, wishing her luck and offering a warning in the same breath.

* * *

Well... Reviews are always appreciated! Hope you all enjoyed this one.


	5. Chapter 5

Well. Erm. Sorry for the delay! But you don't want excuses, do you? You want the story. A few Sandman characters in this chapter.

_Chapter 4, Part II_

* * *

Hermione found herself humming as she walked, idly braiding blades of grass together. The day was objectively beautiful, she mused, like something out of a travel brochure. She half expected a representative of some local tourist board to leap out from behind a hedge, pamphlets in hand. The wind lifted her hair gently, whispering softly as she moved. The little road began to vanish underfoot, the dark tar smudged by piles of sand snared by weedy flowers and stubborn grass. They bled together, softening the path beneath her. She wiggled her toes, able to appreciate every grain underfoot.

_Can I always feel things like this, when I'm dreaming?_

She blinked at the braid in her hand. She'd again forgotten that she was dreaming. She lifted her face, wondering why it was so damnably difficult to hold such an easy concept in her mind.

The path rose before her, winding its lazy way through sand dunes. She turned her head, wondering if she was still within sight of the house, but could see nothing other than green fields and low hedges.

Onwards, then. Her pace was steady and she felt pleasantly unwearied. The day was so glorious that tiredness seemed an altogether impossible concept. How could one be tired in such a beautiful world? The path rose again, up a familiar slope, and a smile stretched her face. She hurried up the hill, the braid slipping forgotten from her fingers.

Shell Cottage shone in the sunlight. Mother of pearl caught the light and flung it out in dazzling arcs. The little garden was perfectly tended, with heavy roses bobbing on delicate stems. The back door stood propped open, with a line of boots acting as an honour guard along the path. She leaned on the jamb, grinning at the sight of wet, scrubbed flag stones and the scent of soap.

It seemed a pity, she mused, to walk over the clean floor with her dirty feet. Besides, she reasoned, there were no shoes beside the door that would fit Fleur, lending credence to her theory that the other woman would not be found inside. She called out anyway, cheerfully awaiting a reply but not disappointed when none was forthcoming. She shrugged. Who in their right mind would spend such a fabulous day indoors, anyway?

She cast a fond look over the little house before stepping back and continuing on her way. She had, after all, places to be.

* * *

Fleur blinked and lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sudden onslaught of grey light. The memory of muggle christmas lights danced behind her eyes, uncomfortably juxtaposed with the blinding haze that surrounded her. She squinted, eyes watering for a moment, before she realised that she was standing at the edge of a field. Sighing, and feeling very put upon, she rubbed her eyes.

Soft rain fell gently, soundless as it drizzled down. Fleur brushed damp hair out of her eyes and peered around. The field was surrounded by a grey stone wall capped by thorn bushes. It was more or less flat though a few small tussocks bristled with plumes of grass. Delicate flowers the soft lavender of evening dotted the meadow, with yellow orchids bobbing as rain dripped from their petals. It looked as though it should be cold, but she felt no chill.

Her eyes were drawn, and her steps as well, to the centre of the field. Nervous, jagged anticipation coiled in her stomach as she peered at a grey monolith sitting in the centre of the field.

The stone was immense. It drew the gaze, its ancient gravity easily perceived. Though some dread rose within her, she found herself stepping closer, the better to study the rock. The side closest to her was jagged, time having worn deep grooves when it alone had stood exposed to the elements. Three shelves had formed, with perhaps a hand span between them. Though it seemed completely natural, like something that had tumbled down a cliff a thousand years ago, a small voice insisted that human hands had been responsible for its placement, if not creation.

She approached slowly, unsure of where she was or, more importantly, _why_. The air had a different quality than before, fresh and piquant. It seemed more real, less dream-like, than before. She passed thorn bushes arrayed with yellow flowers and a scent that was not quite vanilla washed over her. The world resolved itself more sharply and cold, clammy fingers of air suddenly clasped her skin. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

_Have I woken up?_

She swallowed, the dread receding as she tasted the rain on her breath. It was sweet and wholesome, like nectar. It cleared her mind, rather than dulling it, and she felt herself stand up straighter as she reached the stone.

On closer inspection, there were holes in the rough granite shelves. Perfectly circular, they sat in the centre of the ledges. Water dripped through, catching on each layer on its way down before falling onto a patch of bare earth. She touched the stone, the flaked edges slick beneath her hands. It was cold and solid, enormously reassuring in the ephemeral world of misplaced doors and lovers. The rain whispered around her, imperceptible to touch yet filling the air with sound and sitting heavily on her hair. She leaned forwards, watching with some strange fascination as the three holes began to line up. The ground was bare beneath them, a little hollow eroded by the incessant dropping of water.

Bare, but as she peered down, as the ground swam into focus, valleys and dales appeared. Vast, starlit halls and smoking fires flitted before her eyes. Laughing figures and swirling colour danced just beyond the edges of her vision, thrilling and terrifying at once. Fire and light; laughter and gravity. Inexorably drawing her inwards, down through the circles.

"Be careful," a quiet voice called. "Don't open doors you'd be obliged to enter."

Fleur pulled herself back, whirling to face the source of the unexpected disturbance. Her heart was pounding and her mouth dry as she stumbled back. A girl with dark hair sat on the grass a dozen paces away, knees bent and feet bare. She was clad in a simple brown tunic and short trousers, though faded red showed at the gap at her neckline. A long stick rested idly on her shoulder, the end settled in the wet grass between them. It looked, to Fleur, like an unfinished spear.

Fleur blinked and lifted her hand from the stone. The girl regarded her curiously, tipping her unruly head to one side. She seemed as surprised as Fleur felt and appeared to be resisting the urge to leap to her feet. Something about her skinny limbs and overlarge elbows seemed endearing and Fleur couldn't help but smile. She reminded her somewhat of Gabrielle, now that she had started to get tall.

"Who are you, to enter here?" she asked, her voice high but steady. Her accent was lyrical, lilting in the damp air. Droplets of dew clung to her hair and brow, causing Fleur to wonder how long she'd been sitting there.

"Are you a local?" she asked, "or from another place?" She frowned briefly, waiting for Fleur to answer. "Or another time?"

"I'm not local, I don't think," she replied. "This place isn't familiar at all." Fleur sighed. "I'm searching for someone. A woman."

The girl frowned. "Well. She doesn't seem to be here," she shifted the spear slightly, though she seemed to be settling a bit. "Unless you're seeking me."

Fleur shook her head. "No. I'm looking for Hermione Granger."

She barked in laughter. "My! Such a grand name. Well. I suppose the soft places are good spots to check, during a search," she conceded, somewhat gruffly.

"The soft places?" Fleur asked, approaching the young warrior carefully. She sat on the damp ground, her trousers soaked immediately.

The girl lifted her nose haughtily. "You don't know about the soft places, even though you're in one?"

Fleur shrugged, though froze at the end of the gesture as a dim memory began to resolve itself. "I have heard about them, long ago. My grandmother was speaking about them to her sisters. I was very young," she murmured, now recalling the scene with ease. "I was sick, my bed was moved to beside the hearth. They all thought I was asleep."

The girl leaned forward, her grey eyes showing clear fascination. "Are you one of the people? One of the fair folk? How have I never seen you?"

Fleur shook her head. "I'm just an ordinary person."

"Ordinary people don't know about soft places," she pointed out, in reasonable tones.

Fleur shrugged. "My grandmother and her sisters are extraordinary but I am not their sister. There's much they haven't told me."

The girl blinked and her jaw dropped. "You're one of the Women of the Forest, so? One of their daughters, anyway."

Fleur nodded, seeing no harm in revealing her heritage. The young warrior whistled, clearly impressed.

"Well, perhaps that's why you're here, then," she mused. "You should come with me, meet my people," she said, excitement on her face.

Fleur shook her head. "I'm looking for someone," she reminded the girl.

"Hermione Granger," she intoned, tasting the name as though it was something exotic and strange.

Fleur nodded. "Has she been here?"

The woman shook her head. "No one has passed through here, whenever I've taken the air. It's not an easy place for casual travelers to stumble into. Is she one of your people, too?"

Fleur shook her head. "She's a powerful witch, though."

"Makes no odds for entering here," she sighed. "It's luck, or misfortune, for most folk."

Fleur peered at the girl for a long moment, a bit charmed despite the tangled hair and rough clothes. She supposed she saw something of herself in the scrappy youth, before Beauxbatons had knapped the sharp edges off her.

"I came here in a dream, I think. Certainly, I was dreaming before I came here."

"Then that's the way out," the girl said, "or so I've heard. Back into dreams."

"How?" Fleur asked. "I don't see a gap in the hedge."

"Just go away from the stone, and don't look back. The world gets a little… thinner there. It forgets itself. Just think about where you're going."

"Or to whom," Fleur sighed, "given that I have little idea of the _where_."

The girl bounced, moving to sit cross legged, a wide smile on her face. "This has the makings of a grand tale, daughter of the forest! I feel like I should give you something for your journey. A weapon…" she glanced at her unfinished spear and scowled. "If I had such a thing."

Fleur shrugged. "That would be useful, I suppose, given that I have nothing but the clothes on my back. Not even a wand."

The girl frowned. "What about your knife?"

Fleur was baffled, for a moment, and had to think about the statement. She swallowed nervously when she realised what the girl meant, and the implications.

"I don't have it."

The young warrior scoffed. "From what I've heard, it's not the kind of thing that can be separated form you. Not really."

Fleur supposed her shock was written all over her face, causing the warrior to grin toothily. "We were kin, long ago. After a certain manner. We know some of your secrets. I imagine you know some of ours."

She stood, tall and proud despite her youth, and held a hand for Fleur.

"Go and find this Hermione Granger. If I hear tell of her, or if my people find her, I will come and let you know." She paused, and frowned. "Well, you or someone close. They don't let us out very often."

* * *

Hermione spent several minutes watching the waves heave onto the shore, spilling stones and seaweed onto the bleached sand. The knock of pebbles and the hiss of retreating foam formed a strange music, one that stirred an odd restlessness within her heart. The shore was grey beneath Cornish gloom; blinding beneath Antipodean glare. Inky beneath innumerable stars. She felt as though she stood at a cross roads, facing different paths all at the same time.

Different sights, different places, seen all at once with the same eyes. She clenched her hands and shook her head briefly. She was dreaming, though she kept forgetting this fact. It was a long time since she'd been in Australia, longer still since she'd spent more than a few hours in Cornwall.

"I dreamt about them, though," she whispered to herself.

She stepped back, turning from the sea and heading up the shore, moving across the high tide line.

She frowned, memory coming to her in fits and starts. When had these dreams begun? These lucid, vivid journeys? Perhaps in Shell Cottage, before the Battle. Certainly once or twice in Hogwarts. But the majority she'd experienced on her travels, when she'd been far from home.

She found, and was completely unsurprised at the discovery, a circle in the sand. A nest of blankets lay crumpled within a carefully drawn circle, flames almost invisible in the bright sunlight. She knelt outside the bounds, smiling wistfully. It seemed impossibly small. How on earth had she and Fleur managed to stay inside those limited bounds? The night had been immense: the sky itself had been their canopy. It seemed so tiny now, almost quaint.

Hermione drew a handful of sand from the ground beside her, letting the grains slip through her fingers. She repeated the action several times, her mind drifting to that night. She'd not thought about it much since she'd returned and started anew with Fleur. But she couldn't help but recall it now. How careful Fleur had been. How she'd never lain on top of her or moved too quickly. How every touch had begun with a gentle question in nervous eyes.

She couldn't help but smile at the memory and wrapped her arms around herself, grinning at nothing in particular.

"I'm so glad I came back," she whispered, gazing at the unbroken circle. She stood and cast a last fond look at the messy blankets before she turned, starting inland again.

* * *

Fleur walked in the dim place between worlds. One foot moving in front of the other, and the ache in her thighs, were the only clues that she was moving forwards. It was cold, but not in the same way that the field had been. There was a cold wind here that penetrated to the very core of her being. It stripped joy and hope. It echoed and shrieked at the very limits of perception. She wrapped her arms around herself and tucked her fists into her armpits, trying to keep what warmth she had from being stolen. The glassy, hazy quality had returned and she knew beyond a doubt that she was dreaming once more. She wasn't sure that her visit to the field hadn't been a dream, though. She'd felt _more_ awake, but she suspected that didn't mean anything.

Who was the girl, she wondered. She'd known of the Veela, obviously, and had even known some of their most closely guarded secrets. She frowned. Had her people sister tribes elsewhere? She decided that she'd ask her grandmother, when she awoke.

_If I awaken._

She sighed. She wasn't doing too well, she had to admit. She had yet to find her lover in this strange, unending place. She'd barely had a hint. Perhaps Hermione was already awake, sitting beside her sleeping body, worried silly.

Fleur bit her lip. Given the presence of several Veela and the Headmistress, she sincerely hoped Hermione wasn't awake. If she were, she'd doubtlessly perceive the folly of a relationship with her. The pain, the potential for harm, outweighed any benefits. What was an attentive girlfriend against the scorn of one's elders? One's heroes?

What was a girlfriend with no prospects of decent employment, given the fact that most of the magical world was sure she the daughter of monsters? Hermione had a bright future, any fool could see that. Where did she figure in this scheme? A figurative (and perhaps, she thought morbidly, a literal) albatross around such a promising neck.

Her chest ached at the thought and Fleur brought her hand up, resting her curled fist over her heart. The dim world grew quiet, swirling mist replacing the wind. All around her was grey, though she thought she could see a great, leafless forest ahead of her.

_Does she even want me to find her? What if she's escaping me?_

Fleur clenched her jaw as the thought lanced through her and she stumbled, stopping in her tracks. Her hand clenched and she screwed her eyes shut.

_What if she doesn't want me?_

Tears scalded her eyes and she forced herself to look ahead, to continue on her way.

She gasped, and her other fist flew up. She stepped backwards and took a deep breath.

Standing before her, grinning with nothing resembling humour, was Fenrir Greyback. His throat was a bloody ruin; dark clotted blood oozing from the would as wheezing growls crept from his throat. His yellow teeth were broken. His eyes oozed with pus. He was thinner than he had been, haggard and gaunt.

She stepped to one side but he slid in front of her, his teeth bared.

"Not this time," he rasped. The effort of speech left him coughing and he hawked, expectorating bloody phlegm towards her feet. "Little bitch."

She was unarmed. He looked like a wreck, but she knew how strong he was, and how ruthless. Even in a weakened state, he was no enemy with whom to trifle. She stepped backwards, peering around. She was sure she could outrun him, though. If he couldn't catch his breath, he wouldn't go too far. She raised her fists again, glaring at him.

"This time," he croaked, "she's mine."

He moved his chest, causing blood to bubble and pop around his throat. Fleur saw her hands start to tremble. She stepped back again and he did it again, that mockery of a laugh. He made no move to follow her.

"Go! Good."

She clenched her teeth and sucked air in through her nose. She could remember what it had felt like to shove the arrow into his throat. She could still remember the sound he'd made as he'd died. She could remember the terror in his eyes as he'd pawed at the wound. She could remember the pathetic, piteous whines as he'd breathed his last.

She remembered the bruises on Hermione. She remembered her lover drowning in her own breath.

Her hands were still shaking, but with fury now.

She'd beaten the cur before, after all. And didn't they say that the third time was the charm?

She was moving before she could think about it, the cold hopelessness that had surrounded her forgotten, sublimated into rage. Impotent and furious, it lent her forward momentum and little else. Her fist smashed into his gruesome face. He blinked and curled his lip.

Fleur kept her hands up, as she'd been taught. She hit him again, with the same result. Again, and he began that awful laughing. She threw herself into an uppercut and he tipped his head back, howling with mirth as he brought a lazy hand up, batting her away.

She stumbled, finding her feet with difficulty. He followed her, idly throwing a fist into the side of her head. An elbow followed. A knee. His fist again. His gurgling laughter echoed in her ears as she stumbled to her feet, scrambling backwards.

There was blood on her lip and she ached where he'd hit her. This felt far too real, she mused, bitterly. She clenched her hand over her chest again, frustration and helplessness growing within her.

"You like sticks," he growled, a predatory grin on his face. "Clobbered me wiv' one." He coughed again, before wiping his wet lips on his sleeve. He stooped, groping briefly in the mist at his feet. He lifted a rotten, wet lump of wood, turning it around in his great fist.

"Not much," he said, eyeing it speculatively. "Bit shit." He tossed it negligently away, unconcerned by the sound of it shattering into a hundred pieces. He dipped down again, a malevolent smirk on his misshapen features.

"Much better."

Fleur felt cold terror fill her. He lifted a piece of flat wood, plain but jagged at one end. The sort of thing one would take from a broken palate. Her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps as she slid backwards. Her heart was pounding and her mouth dry. She wanted, needed to run. She knew what happened next. She knew how it would feel. The dull thump that robbed her breath. The searing, tearing pain that would follow. The agony of trying to escape.

_Hermione!_

She clenched her fist, staring at her opponent, glaring at him. Her breath was shallow, her pulse pounding in her ears.

_Please!_

"You know what they say," he said, his voice strengthening, "regarding turn about being fair play?" he turned the plank in his hand and grinned as it shrank, and began to gleam in the dim light. "You know what it feels like to have your throat cut?"

"Because I think," he hissed, reaching out, faster than a striking viper, and grabbed her around the throat. "You need to know what it's like."

Fleur clawed at the grimy, cruel paw around her and pulled back on the fingers as best she could.

The gloating, evil face before her melted, like a reflection in a still pond disturbed by a thrown stone. The smirk and the malice remained, but were now housed within her own features. It was like looking into a terrible mirror. Her heart was frantic in her chest and she redoubled her efforts as she felt the chill of metal against her neck.

"You have no idea how much you need to know."

The pressure increased and Fleur fought against a scream, fought against herself.

"Meep?"

"Shit." The grip tightened. "Go away."

"Meep!"

"Oh, for goodness' sake…" The grip relaxed and Fleur fell to her knees, hands reflexively going to her throat. Spots swam before her vision and tears leaked over her cheeks. She stared at the legs before her, clad in dark jeans. Her own legs, but not quite. She stood up, fury filling her chest.

White hair fell over a smooth, though decidedly male, brow. The man, or whatever he was, in front of her brushed a hand through his fringe in a practiced show of exasperation. He adjusted his sunglasses with the next gesture, not even sparing her a glance.

"I am in the middle of something, Goldie."

"Meep!"

"Take that tone with me and I'll be having gargoyle au vin for supper!" he snapped, stomping forward. A small, golden blur shot out from in front of him, which Fleur first took to be a snitch. She was quickly disabused of that notion, however, when it smacked into her chest.

"Oh, of course! Hide with the dreamer, you miserable little…"

"Aurgk!"

Fleur started, cradling what appeared to be a baby bird against her chest. A huge, monstrous green beast lumbered into the space between herself and the man. It was enormous, and sported impressive claws, but regarded with docile eyes.

"Bugger it. You as well?"

"Aurgk."

"Come on," a voice hissed, strange and sinister. It seemed as though the man was speaking, though his lips didn't move. "If we've been told to do a job, we'd best hop to it."

"Though she is interesting," another voice rasped. "Very interesting. The other job will be dull. All boring rot and the usual shit."

The man seemed to be considering his unseen advisors before he snapped his fingers. "Duty calls. And we know what happens when it's ignored." He flashed a disconcertingly toothy, and perfect, grin at Fleur. "A pleasure, Miss. Perhaps we'll meet again sometime."

"Meep…"

"Well, _I_ do, even if she doesn't, you naked canary."

"Meep!"

Fleur swallowed, stepping forward as he prepared to turn to go.

"Wait!" she snapped. "Who are you? What have you done to Hermione?"

He paused, apparently not the most unmannerly of monsters. "Who?"

"Hermione Granger!" she snapped. "Where is she?"

"Never heard of her," he said, with a nonchalant shrug. "Not one of my customers."

Fleur blinked, and without thinking took a step forward. "But those things you said!?"

He lifted pale eyebrows, somewhat incredulous. "Oh, never mind all that. It wasn't me."

"What?" she spluttered, frowning.

"I was once called a mirror," he said, laughing. "Ta, ta."

He turned and vanished into the mists. Laughter echoed in his wake and Fleur felt her limbs weaken. She was aching where he'd hit her and completely lost.

"Aurgk?" the green beast grunted, butting a gentle head under her elbow. She leaned against him and, thoroughly shaken, let herself be led away into the darkness.

* * *

Hermione sighed. The beach was far behind her, a ribbon against the horizon. She stooped at a pool at the top of a cliff, peering into the little copse at the foot. It seemed quite pleasant, but she couldn't see an easy way down. The water was cool and refreshing, washing the sweat from her neck and the dust from her fingers.

She wondered where she was. The sky was clouding over, a slow blanket below the brilliant sky. It was still warm, though, and it didn't look much like rain. The terrain around her was unremarkable, a sea of grass broken only by straggly, lifeless trees. It wasn't particularly threatening, though. It was old, and tired. It was land that had seen a thousand wet summers and a thousand winter storms.

As she walked, she trailed her hand through brittle grass, tickled by seeds. The brown stems were too brittle to plait, unfortunately. She kept going, though, heading towards a low hill in the distance.

A wind began to moan, doleful over the crackling furze and flowerless whin bushes. Wet hummocks had piled themselves on top of the bog, deepening as she ventured into the moor. Brackish water stood in stagnant puddles, dark with iron and peat. Moss lay saturated and drooping, trailing into obscurity in the impenetrable pools. She was quite glad to spy a path, though it was rough, and to avoid the worst of the moor.

As she walked, ancient tree trunks began to appear. Twisted and tortured by long immersion and scoured silver by the wind. They thrust themselves out of the choking peat at the cut edge of ditches and clung together in heaps like the bones of ancient beasts. In places, where a recent cut exposed their innards, the dark wood oozed like old blood.

She followed the road, wrapping her arms around herself as she skirted a wide, shallow puddle. The pot-holed road led up the side of a low hill, towards a squat building surrounded by the remains of several trees. Hermione paused for a moment, peering up at the mean structure. Smoke rose from the chimney stack, rising unimpeded into the still air.

Silence surrounded her, pressing in on every side. Swallowing the groaning wind and wet respiration of the moor. She frowned but started forward.

Something told her she needed to go there. That answers would be found there.

And, an optimistic part of her chirped, perhaps Fleur, as well.

* * *

"Miserable sack of mumbling, muttering, mildew stinking _imbecile_!"

Fleur stopped at the door, her hand poised to knock. She felt her eyebrows crawl into her hairline and glanced backwards towards her guides. The beast had settled at the foot of the steps, yawning languidly. The chick was hopping up and down in her hand. She peered down at the little creature, wondering what it wanted.

An ominous crash sounded from within, quickly following by a howl of pain. Fleur opened her mouth to object to entering when the chick leapt up onto her shoulder, chirping noisily.

"Oh, you've made a friend," a soft voice said, from behind them. Fleur, carefully disentangling the creature from her hair, turned to see a woman scratching the beast behind what Fleur presumed to be an ear. One of his hind legs was thumping with contentment.

The woman reminded Fleur of some of the Veela she'd met. Ancient, though ageless. Her face was lined and her dark hair streaked with grey. She was beautiful, though seemed to carry great sadness or a heavy burden. She fixed dark, wise eyes on Fleur and she felt herself flush.

"I'm sorry to intrude…" she began, swallowing nervously. "I, um, I met…"

"Meep!"

The woman's eyebrows raised. "Oh. The Corinthian."

Fleur frowned. "The Corinthian _what_?"

"Aurgk."

"Meep. Meep, meep!"

"I see," the woman turned her attention back to Fleur. "Why didn't you wake up?"

Fleur tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I… I'm not sure I can."

The woman scoffed. "Of course you can. You're dreaming. Waking is what comes next."

Fleur frowned, not sure she understood. "I think I came here to find a friend. She wouldn't wake up. She couldn't."

"Oh," she woman said, tipping her head to one side. "Now, that is strange."

"A bit of a mystery," a hoarse voice interrupted. A huge, glossy raven settled on the beast's head. "Evenin' Gregory, how's it hangin'?"

"Aurgk."

"Yeah, no need to get literal, man." The bird clacked his beak. "A mystery brought to the perfect place, wouldn't you say, Eve?"

The front door chose that moment to fly off its hinges, disgorging a large, wailing man. He rolled down the steps, his arms thrown over his face.

"N-n-n-n-n-no!" he cried, "No muh-muh-muh-"

"What?!" a shrill voice demanded, piercing the gloomy doorway just before a wiry, blood splattered man emerged, clutching a pool cue in a white knuckled hand. "No muh-muh-morons in the house, you say!? I'll agree with you for once, you jelly-bellied, eel-headed, snot-dripping, fart-ripping-"

"Cain!" the woman, who was apparently named Eve, snapped. "Stop this! We have a guest." She stooped to comfort the blubbering man and Cain rolled his eyes. He peered through gore splattered lenses at Fleur and she took a step back. He squinted and took his glasses off, wiping them with a corner of his shirt.

"The fashion thing? What on earth are you wearing now?"

"That's a dreamer, you idiot," the raven clacked.

"Oh?" Cain twirled his beard with a grimy finger. "Well, wake up and go away. I have important tasks to attend to."

"Murdering your brother is not an important task," Eve sighed, helping the other man to his feet. He sniffled miserably and dabbed at a wound on his face with a patched handkerchief. The chick gave a mournful squeak and flapped over to him, curling up beneath his beard and making soothing sounds.

"Th-th-th-thank you, Gu-gu-gu-gu-Goldie."

Cain sniffed. "Oh, boo-hoo. The tub of lard whinges and suddenly, I'm the bad guy?"

"Hey," the raven croaked, tipping his head to one side, peering at Fleur. "Why _haven't_ you woken up yet? Usually this scene of family unity," he indicated the scene with his beak, "wakes dreamers up. Sends 'em screaming."

Fleur watched, fascinated despite herself, as Cain took his shattered pool cue and a rock, peering with malevolent glee at the back of his brother's head. Before he could line the shot up, Fleur stepped forward. "My name's Fleur."

"Puh-puh-puh-puh-puh-pleased to meet you," the round man stammered. "I'm Ay-ay-ay-ay-"

"Barely able to string a sentence together!" Cain shrieked, tossing the stone up into the air. He swung the cue like a bat and sent it smashing though a window. The beast butted his head into Eve's stomach wearily.

"That bundle of sunshine is Cain," the raven said, "and his brother is Abel. I'm Matthew and this is Eve. The two charmers are Gregory and Goldie."

"They're guh-guh-gargoyles!" Abel said, grinning at the little creature in his beard.

"Fleur," Eve said, frowning. "I've heard that name before, recently."

The people in attendance seemed surprised, though none more than Fleur herself.

"You have?" Matthew asked, his beady eyes curious. "Where?"

"From a dreamer," she said, frowning. "She was searching for something, a while ago." She turned to the raven. "You were there, she had all the parcels. You mentioned that you'd seen her before."

"Oh, yeah! The short one, with the crazy hair?"

Though Fleur didn't agree with the description (or rather, would never agree out loud) she sighed with relief. "She's about so high," she held a hand up, "and has brown eyes. She's a witch, if that helps."

"Never hinders to have a witch around, does it mother?" Cain said, grinning as he leaned against the porch.

"I'm not your mother, Cain," Eve said, in a way that suggested she'd said it a thousand times before, to no avail.

"She was here? When?" she approached Eve, her heart pounding. "When? Where?"

Eve sighed and shook her head. "Even if I answered those questions, it wouldn't do you any good. Neither time nor geography mean very much here. You'd be better off searching for her in the waking world."

Fleur threw her hands up, frustrated. She sank down onto the step, sighing deeply. "I left her in waking world. She couldn't wake up, she wouldn't."

Eve frowned at that and turned to Cain. "And then, what?"

"I don't know," Fleur confessed. "I woke up here, I suppose."

"Hah! Silly slattern! Daft bint!" Cain crowed, "you mean you fell asleep here?"

"I'm still not entirely sure where here is." She reflected on her journey so far. "Faerie?"

Cain shuddered. "Oh, oh no. Not there, with those feckless fools."

"You're in the Dreaming," Eve explained, more kindly. "The realm governed by Dream."

"Oh," Fleur said. Abel flashed her a small smile, which she returned. "I see. I'm dreaming."

"Yes. And given what we saw of your friend Hermione, so is she," Eve said, thoughtfully.

Matthew settled his wings and cawed. "She was looking for someone, too. Some married chick."

Fleur covered her face with her hands and groaned. "That's me. Or it was, a month ago."

"Oh," Matthew said, blinking. "Uh… so she's a friend, huh?"

Fleur rolled her eyes. "Yes. A very dear and close friend and I'm not married any more."

"You know," Cain said, stroking his beard, "this will never do. We can't have dreamers running around here, _looking_ for each other. It's just not done. His nibs will have a fit."

Abel trembled. "Tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-tea?"

"Thank you Abel," Eve said, graciously, "that would be lovely."

Abel bustled inside, Goldie trailing after him with a doleful call. Gregory snorted and laid his head on his paws.

"I'd invite you inside, since this is clearly a mystery, but there is a tub of guts belonging to that tub of guts in the living room." Fleur blinked. Eve rolled her eyes. "And a pail with most of his brain in the kitchen. Don't take cake if he offers it."

They sat in relative silence, the quiet evening broken only by the sound of Cain whittling his pool cue down to a point. Fleur felt lost at sea, adrift with this strange people. They seemed dangerous, and she didn't doubt their capacity to harm her, but she didn't fear them as she feared the stranger from earlier, the man with sunglasses.

Eventually Abel returned with a tray, stacked with tea cups and snacks suited to all present. Fleur tried not to retch at the sight of Matthew's rat.

"The boss should probably be informed," he said, ruefully, before he tucked into his rat.

"He's ruh-ruh-ruh-rug-right," Abel muttered, from behind his cup.

"For once," Cain snarked, scowling over the rim of his mug.

"The boss?" Fleur asked, cradling her mug in chilled, sore fingers. "This place has a ruler?" she asked, sure that her skepticism was obvious.

"Uh, of course," Matthew admonished. "What are you, stupid? You think all this just, what? Popped into being on the eight day or something?"

"It wuh-wuh-wuh-was after th-th-th-th-th-the sa-sa-sa-sa-"

"Nincompoop! Lily-livered, yellow-belly, secret-spewing," Cain roared, throwing his mug at Abel and lifting his cue like a spear. "Truth-leaking, lie-puking-"

"Cain!" Eve bellowed, her eyes flashing darkly. "Would you please stop it for half an hour!"

Abel cowered and Cain's chest heaved. His eyes were wild and feral. He threw the spear from him, as far as he could and flung himself onto the steps, tugging at his whispers.

"Wow," Matthew breathed, "taking a break from the inmates, there, yes. This place has a ruler. Dream."

Fleur's hand were shaking, some ancient and small part of her quaking at the sight of the spear poised. "Dream? The King of Dreams, or the Lord?"

"Well, yeah," the raven seemed to shrug. "But more importantly, he's Dream."

Fleur frowned, not quite understanding.

"It's simple," Eve said, with a weary sigh, clearly seeing her bewilderment. "There are seven of them, you see. The Endless."

"Are they gods?" Fleur asked, frowning. Though she wasn't very familiar with them, she'd always been a bit suspicious of gods, given the stories she'd heard about their exploits.

"No," Matthew croaked, laughing. "Though I thought that, too."

"The just _are_," Cain snapped. "He _is_ Dream. He _is_ Destiny. And _she_," he turned, sneering at his brother, "is Death."

Fleur felt her blood run cold. "What? Death?"

Eve brushed her hair behind her ear, settling herself more comfortably. "When the first thing, and things take forms other than the living, began… When it came into existence, Destiny was there, awaiting it. And all that begins must end, so then came Death. When they became aware that they had a beginning, and an end, living things began to Dream about the space between these.

"But the power to dream is terrible, in its own way, and was soon followed by Destruction. For if we can imagine something, we may create it and what we create, we inevitably destroy. There followed the twins, Desire and Despair, who move our hearts fiercely, but in opposite directions. Lastly came Delight."

"And she didn't last long," Cain snarled. "So watch out for the Lady Delirium, who'll have you raving mad in about three minutes, if she takes a liking to you."

"So we are in the realm of Dream, then," Fleur sighed. "Can the others enter here? Can one die here?"

"Lady," Matthew scoffed, "you just met more than one damn person who did!" Abel whimpered.

"Sh-sh-sh-she doesn't mean us, Matthew, or dreams," Abel stuttered. He met her worried gaze with on filled with pity. "She means dreamers."

"Everything dies," Eve said, gently. Her eyes were ancient pools and Fleur's breath caught in her throat. There was such sorrow there! Such grief. Her chest tightened and fear numbed her finger tips.

"And this place," Eve said, gesturing vaguely to world around them, "is more dangerous than most."

* * *

Hermione pushed the door to the hovel open, peering into the darkness beyond. Sight unable to penetrate the gloom, she entered. Her eyes took a long moment to adjust to the paltry light. Several candles guttered in the dusty air, casting scant light.

"Not too cheerful, is it?" a voice asked. Hermione gasped and spun. A woman sat in the inglenook, hair dark and untidy. Hermione's heart pounded within her chest.

_Bellatrix Lestrange!_

"I mean, I did what I could with the candles," she said, leaning forward, "but it's not a lot, huh?"

Hermione relaxed. It wasn't Bellatrix at all, but rather a young woman. She was quite petite, pale with dark hair and beautiful soft eyes. She was also, in Hermione's opinion, wearing far too much make up.

"No," she laughed, stepping forward. "It's not too bad." She sat in the opposite nook, her eyes better adjusted.

"I don't suppose you know where we are? I mean, you're the first person I've met here."

The girl tipped her head to one side, as though amused. "Now, that's strange," she mused. "This place is usually filled with all manner of beings. But to answer your question, we're just inside the southern border of nightmare, about eight miles widdershins of the screaming bogs."

Hermione blinked, not quite anticipating that answer. The girl chuckled. "In the realm of Dream, of course."

"Oh," Hermione said, frowning, "I keep forgetting that I'm dreaming."

"Probably because you're doing it in a much more whole hearted manner than you're accustomed to," the girl mused. "Why are you so determined to enter this place, by the way? Most people are content to pass idly by but you've stormed the borders!"

Hermione shrugged. "I didn't realise I was doing that. I was looking for someone."

"Did you find her, Hermione?"

Hermione was still for a long moment. Though her mind felt clouded in this place, unfocused and feeble, she was not without wit.

"Excuse me, have we met before?"

The girl nodded. "Once. But you don't remember. No one ever does."

Hermione laughed nervously. "I'm sure that's not the case. You're quite memorable. I've just had a… stressful few months."

The girl nodded, as though this was old news. Hermione cleared her throat, feeling awkward all of a sudden.

"What is this place, though?"

The girl sighed. "A torture chamber, if you'll believe it. A place where many people died."

"Did…" Hermione took a breath. "Did you die here? Are you a ghost?"

The girl blinked, surprise clear on her face. She began to laugh, drawing in deep breaths and doubling over.

"See! That's why it's always worth coming here! You always find someone to cheer you up!" she wiped a tear from her cheek and hiccoughed. "No. I didn't die here."

Hermione smiled at her mirth. "Did you need cheering up?"

She was quiet for a long time, pondering her answer carefully. "I suppose I did. I have a job and, frankly, most people don't want me to do it. The majority hate me for it, in fact." She sighed. "So sometimes it's nice to come here and borrow a book or talk to the ravens."

Hermione frowned. "I'm not sure if that's always a good thing, you know. They give dreadful advice."

"Do they, really?" she asked, with a quiet, secretive smile. "You seem to have done well for yourself."

Hermione wasn't quite sure what to make of that and so stayed quiet. "I have, you know. I really have. There was a lot of hurt to get here but I think it was worth it. I mean, I have my friends. I have Fleur. I survived the war."

The girl before her stiffened at the last remark, her eyes growing sorrowful.

"It was a close call, though."

Hermione blinked. "Was it?"

She shook her dark head. "Closer than you know."

Her eyes were dark and Hermione thought she could hear, in the far distance, the sound of wings.

"Which is why I came to find you."

* * *

Ehem. So, apologies for the long absence. Life has been a tad hectic lately. Here, we finally got to really meet some of the Sandman Characters. Thoughts? Flames? Curses? Hope you enjoyed!

Edit: Right, since a lot of people aren't too familiar with the Sandman Characters, behold a play bill!

Hermione Granger - A witch; soon to return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy  
Fleur Delacour - A witch; soon to be employed by Hogwarts

_Hogwarts_

Professor Minerva McGongall - Headmistress of the School  
Madame Pomfrey - The school matron  
Gabriela Senka - Queen of a tribe of Veela, newly resident in the school grounds  
Vega - Huntress and warrior of the Veela. Senka's consort  
Iliana - Huntress and warrior of the Veela. Fleur's grandmother  
Celeste - A Veela child  
Hania - A Veela child  
Joanna - A Veela child

_The Dreaming_

Matthew - A raven. Servant of Dream  
Barnabas - A dog. Servant of Destruction, companion of Delerium  
Eve - A woman who usually resides in Nightmare  
Luna Lovegood - A witch  
Amanda - A muggle  
A warrior in training  
The Corinthian - A nightmare. Servant of Dream  
Goldie - A gargoyle  
Gregory - A gargoyle  
Abel - The victim. Servant of Dream  
Cain - The murderer. Servant of Dream  
The Guardians - Creatures that guard the gate to Dream's stronghold  
Lucien - A librarian. Servant of Dream.

_The Endless_

Dream  
Death


	6. Chapter 6

Well. This is it! This story was always meant to stand alone, to wrap up one or two select hanging threads from Witnessed Here in Time in Blood. It was a strange little interlude, and thanks for indulging me!

* * *

_Ivory and Horn, Chapter 5_

* * *

The castle before you is built from blocks of stone, hewn long ago from a distant quarry. It rests beneath an ever changing sky and will sometimes appear golden, under the right light. Its roofs are clad in slate, edged with dull lead. Its windows filled with thick glass to deter the ever probing wind. You sit on a vast, immaculate lawn and enjoy the sight. It is solid, built to last forever, but not at the expense of the comfort of its inhabitants. Children empty from a gate, chasing each other through the crisp autumn air. None pay you the slightest attention, for which you're grateful but also a bit lonesome. It seems like it would have been a nice place to go to school, a nostalgic part of you whispers.

The castle is beautiful; inviting and homey despite its grandeur. Though it skirts the fringes of improbability, there is no doubt in your mind that it is real. That somewhere, beyond a high moor and forbidding forest, sits the castle of your childhood dreams.

Your mind drifts to other castles. To the ruin. To the evidence that time inevitably finds us all. Despite the sorrow there, though, it is not difficult to recall. Unlike another place.

Unlike the castle which is not real. Cannot be real.

You have only ever glimpsed it from the corner of your eye, while flitting from one dream to another. It inhabits the centre of the land you visit; the seat of power of its Lord. The heart of the land of nod. It is, most emphatically, not inviting. It never looks warm and buttery under afternoon (or any) light.

It is vast. Spires and towers compete for wisps of smoke and cloud high overhead. Walls throw themselves against one another with little care for line or continuity or sanity. Parts of it vanish when not in use. Other parts of it vanish once they're snared their prey.

_This_ castle does not belong in a fairy tale, like the other one. This castle is one that those folk have trouble entering, for deep, tempting shadows house cold iron and sweet nectar, in uncomfortable proximity. Gods have entered, and spent their time restlessly pacing opulent suites. Demons don't tarry, either.

You tear your gaze away. The castle hurts your eyes and quickens your breath. It's not real, but too real at the same time. It's too strange.

Before its gates stand a group of travelers. An errant knight. A laughing fool. A wise advisor. A monster bounds from a shadowy corner of the castle and roars. It bellows, thunder in its voice and you wake in a cold sweat, trembling.

Though it's late (or horribly early) you don't return to bed, not trusting yourself to find your way back to the right castle.

* * *

"Halt!" a great, booming voice demanded. Fleur felt her jaw drop at the sight of an immense hippogriff pawing the ground before her. He lowered his head and glared at her. Fleur skidded to a stop, preparing to bow. Cain strode past her, imperiously and unconcerned by the threat.

"Shut up, Odds'n'Ends. Where's Lucien?"

"You," the hippogriff said, gruffly. "You're far from your house." He retreated though, taking a step away from the man.

A great scaly head loomed into view, regarding Fleur with eyes eerily reminiscent of a certain Welsh Green. She swallowed thickly and the beast blinked lazily, disregarding her as a threat and meal at once.

"You've brought a dreamer. Why?"

Cain sighed, clearly aggravated. Matthew flapped lazily over his head, perching on the balustrade beside a third guardian, an enormous griffon. The beast yawned, his tongue the colour of fresh blood. Fleur's skin crawled, prickling all up and down her spine. The small hairs on her arms were standing to wary attention.

"Hey boys," he said, by way of greeting. "Is Loosh in? We found this chick. We think something's up. Could we talk to him?"

The hippogriff clacked his beak and turned his back. The griffon settled his heavy head on paws the size of beer casks and the wyvern tucked his head under his wing. Fleur turned to Cain but he was inspecting his fingernails.

"Well," an amused voice called, announcing the appearance of an incredibly skinny man. He was probably the tallest, thinnest man Fleur had ever seen. He bobbed as he walked, peering at her over the top of a pair of spectacles. Given how he towered over her, it was an admirable accomplishment. "Good evening. Welcome."

He extended a hand, which was warm and dry and felt very normal. Fleur smiled, relief lightening her chest. "Hello. My name is Fleur."

"Lucien. Head librarian. Now," he turned his gaze to Matthew. "Why is she here? Not to be rude, miss."

Fleur waved her hand, dismissing the apology as unnecessary.

"Well, she won't wake up. Ah, uh, she followed another dreamer in." Matthew's feathers puffed up for a moment. "Was a bit more worried about the other one, to be honest."

Lucien frowned. "You suspect a vortex? Nonsense. We aren't due one for scores of years." Lucien peered at Fleur thoughtfully. "Curious, though."

He turned on his heel and walked towards the great castle. When no one moved, he turned to glance over his shoulder. "Well? Come along."

Cain snorted. "I've done my bit. And I have a brother who needs some… attention."

Fleur shuddered as the macabre little man sloped off into the shadows. Matthew beat his wings and settled himself on her shoulder. He was heavier than she expected, more solid and reassuring. She smiled up at him and he winked.

"So," Lucien said as they trailed behind him, "who are you?"

"My name is Fleur Delacour," she said, forced to scurry to match his long stride. Her cheeks flushed. She hadn't needed to resort to this kind of thing since she was a child.

"Well, that it a good name, but who are you?" he asked, taking a sharp turn. "Keep up, now, don't get lost." He ascended a steep flight of stairs. "There's something unspeakably ghastly roaming the halls at the moment."

"I mean," he clarified, after pausing to allow a stage coach to pass in front of them, "are you a journeying artisan? Are you, in fact, a wandering star? Are you the long lost daughter of an ancient kingdom?"

Fleur blinked, frowning at the back of Lucien's head. "No, not at all. I'm just Fleur Delacour. I," she paused. "Well, I'm a witch. I'm about to start a job with Hogwarts, as a helper."

They ducked through a chamber filled with penguins serving drinks to a man who resembled a muggle accountant. His eyes were glassy, his motion slow. He moved as though ploughing through molasses.

As though dreaming.

"Who was that?" she demanded, as they entered a narrow corridor on the other side of the room.

"Oh, him?" Lucien asked. "Just a dreamer."

"Well," Fleur said, frowning, "I'm a dreamer, too. I think."

"You may be that, but there's more to it," he mused. He threw open enormous doors, striding into a dusty, marble floored room. Fleur watched clouds of dust rise as he moved to stand in the centre of a strange, arcing pattern of tiles. The light that managed to penetrate was heavy with motes and drier than old bones. Fleur spun as she entered, barely able to take in the entire place in a single glance. Columns the width of tree trunks lined distant walls, arching into the dim heights where, presumably, the ceiling dwelt. Lines of bookshelves taller than church spires extended from the tiled entrance and seemed, where Fleur could glimpse the aisles between them, to extend indefinitely.

She stopped abruptly, causing Matthew to caw and alight from her shoulder. He swooped through the air, his calls echoing through the cavernous structure.

"Where," Fleur swallowed, overwhelmed and awed, "where are we?"

"The library of the Lord of Dream," Lucien replied, casting a fond look over the miles of shelving. "Which contains every book written. Every book ever conceived, as well. Every book ever dreamed, even if the author never put pen to paper."

Fleur's jaw gaped despite herself. "How? Why?"

Lucien smiled. "Well, why? Let me tell you, I do think the best stories are dreamt. They lose something, when you have to trap them in words. When you have to make them submit to grammar and logic and all that. As to how, well." He adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose, an apologetic expression creasing his face. "That is the function of this place. That is how. The exact mechanics are… beyond most of us."

Fleur frowned. "You sound like an old teacher of mine."

Lucien rolled his eyes. "You'd be amazed how often I hear that. Come now, tell me though, who are you? You must have realised by now that something strange is happening. You're not acting like a dreamer."

"Neither was her friend," Matthew croaked. "It was weird, Loosh."

Lucian hummed to himself, wandering between stacks of bookshelves. "Do you possess any enchanted amulets?"

Fleur blinked. "Oh, well, my girlfriend enchanted my handbag to hold more. But I don't have it with me."

Lucien paused. "Given access to the untold possibilities afforded by being magically gifted, you enchanted a handbag?"

Fleur frowned. "I don't own any amulets. I'm sorry, but there's no need to be so snippy, sir."

Lucien raised his eyebrows mildly. "My apologies. It's just that, well, whenever people come here, they usually have a fantastic story to accompany them. It's usually not a case of, well, wandering in without so much as an interesting artifact or quest."

She paused, gathering her thoughts. She lacked artefacts of any description and wasn't so much on a quest as… fetching Hermione. A smile stretched her face at the thought of her lover. Perhaps there was a story there, in the midst of it all.

"I'm the daughter of Apolline and Albert Delacour," she said, softly. "I have a younger sister, named Gabrielle, who is named for the Veela Queen, Gabriela Senka. My mother's mother is a fearsome warrior who often wears the shape of a monster. Hermione Granger is the best friend of Harry Potter, the boy who lived." She straightened her back and grinned.

"Let me tell you a story about war, and secrets and how two people fell in love."

Lucien tipped his head to one side, excitement clear on his long face. "Well, do go on."

* * *

Vega sighed, stifling a yawn as she surveyed the scene before her. Madame Pomfrey had long since dropped into a doze, if the snores escaping from beneath the brim of her hat were anything to judge by. Senka was scratching a monstrous orange cat behind the ears and McGonagall was gazing resentfully out into the bright afternoon sunlight. Though only a few hours had passed, it seemed like years since she'd sat with her family and broken her fast. She felt a pout threatening but resisted, given the company.

Iliana sat beside Fleur, perched on the side of the bed, stroking her hair fondly. She was quiet, which was usually not a good sign, in Vega's experience. The other woman could stew and ruminate with the best of them. It was often more prudent to head her off at the pass, so to speak.

"Tell me more," she found herself saying, "about the sparrows." She spoke in English, in an effort to include McGonagall. Of course, if she'd _actually_ been interested, she would have asked later, in secret. The witch stopped her pacing and sat, her eyes bright and curious.

"Yes, I wouldn't mind hearing more, myself."

Iliana sighed, aggravated. "Well, it's simple. There exists the dreaming, the place each of us venture at night. It is close, but also terribly far away, as all sensible people know. In that realm, one finds possibilities. It becomes possible to fly without wings, or to relive a childhood day."

"Or to encounter dreadful beasts," Senka added, a small grimace on her face.

Iliana's wings shifted with annoyance. "Anyway. The future is similar. It is something we can never touch, yet all experience, in due course. In the dreaming, the fantastical, nonsensical possibilities of the imagination exist along side with the possible, potential realities of the future. So, if one can navigate dreams, she may gain an insight into the future."

"It's an ability rarely found," Senka said, leaning forward. "Though there are pockets here and there. Us, some in the furthest east… It is more common in some populations than others."

"And," said Iliana, "if identified early on, can be trained. The talent may be honed. In each generation of our people, there are a few girls who may practice this art. Fleur was one."

"So you were allowed to prevent her, merely because her mother wouldn't have approved?" McGonagall asked, skeptically.

Iliana shrugged. "The live-span of a sparrow, once trained, is long indeed. There is no pressing need to fill the ranks, at this time. And it is rarely prudent to have too many."

McGonagall sighed, visibly annoyed. "What troubles me still is the fact that Fleur experienced a vision of Hermione's death. How do we know this jaunt into dreams won't kill her?"

Iliana sighed. "We don't. It's not unknown for these journeys to be fatal, especially for an untrained pair of fools such as these. Hopefully, I will be able to find help with my people."

McGonagall closed her eyes, pain clear in her bearing. "So this is it? Her surviving the Battle was nothing more than a brief reprieve?"

Senka leaned towards her. "We don't know that. Perhaps seeing that vision allowed Fleur to save her. Maybe this is how it's _supposed_ to be."

"I can't help but feel," McGonagall said, her voice tremulous, "that it could very much go one way or the other, at this moment in time."

Vega held her tongue, but could not argue with the sentiment. Senka reached for her and she clasped her wife's hand firmly. The sensation that they were poised, ready to fly or fall, was palpable.

"I just wish we could help," the witch said, in a low voice, appearing older than Vega could ever recall seeing her.

* * *

"And the next thing I remember," Fleur said, her voice hoarse from speaking, "I was here. On a bank somewhere."

She was seated on the floor of the library, across from Lucien, who bore an expression of rapt enthrallment. He grinned broadly.

"My! That was some story! Brava!"

"Yes," a solemn voice intoned, from a dark nook several yards away, "indeed it was."

Lucien, with incredible agility for one so gangling, leapt to his feet. Fleur rose more slowly, taking stock of the newcomer. As with many others before her, the first thing that struck her about the person before her was his gaze. His eyes were dark, almost impossible to discern. They burned beneath a brow paler than newly fallen snow, like stars reflected in a winter puddle. But there was no doubt in her mind that he was watching her, calmly regarding her.

He was slim, she saw, dressed in plain robes. The only visible ornament was a large gem stone hanging around his neck. His hair was unruly, though unlike her beloved's, seemed genuinely unkempt. It was as though he had much more important things to consider than mere hair.

"My Lord," Lucien said, startled. "Oh, you caught me dallying. I do apologise. Allow me to present Fleur, a dreamer, a witch and a daughter of the Veela. She's searching for her one true love."

Fleur's eyebrow twitched at the summary. It made her feel quite ridiculous, to be described as a grown adult's one true love. But she sketched a bow for the Lord before her, despite herself.

"Fleur, this is Dream of the Endless, ruler of the dreaming."

"Thank you for allowing me entrance," she said, respectfully.

Mirth danced on Dream's lips. "Well, it's not my place to debar dreamers. I bid you welcome, Fleur of the Veela. I haven't spoken with one of your seers for a long time. How sleeps the forest?"

Fleur blinked, sure that confusion was clearly written on her face. "Oh, I'm not a seer. I'm here searching for Hermione." Fleur wasn't entirely sure that the Veela _had_ seers. She'd have to ask her grandmother.

"Her one true love, sire," Lucien piped up. Fleur blushed, earning a cackling laugh from Matthew.

"Oh," he said, frowning briefly. "How odd. You shouldn't be able to walk so freely here, then. Most unusual." He paused for a moment, his chin in his hand as he peered at her. "Ah. I see. Well, it is easily remedied. It's time for you to return to the waking world."

"No!" Fleur shouted, her hands flying up. "No! Please, I won't leave without Hermione!"

Dream frowned and folded his arms. After a tense moment, he released a sigh. "Very well. Do you have anything that belongs to her?"

Fleur blinked. She patted her pockets dumbly, searching for so much as a sweet paper. Sadly, her search was fruitless. Her eyes flew to the impassive, distant depths of the dream king's, before they slid sideways, spying the bookshelves.

"Wait," she breathed. "Lucien, please. Does Hermione have a book here?"

Lucien chuckled. "Why, miss Granger has several."

* * *

A shaggy grey dog lay with his head on his paws, staring out over a busy London street. He yawned once, turning his attention to the pile of rags tucked into a doorway behind him. A small, vein coloured fish popped out of the jumble, eyeing him before retreating into the noisome depths.

A passing stranger, with very shiny shoes, dropped a coin onto a plate in front of him.

Barnabas lifted his head and peered at the little copper disc.

"Stingy city bastard," he muttered to himself. A jewel green fish flitted between his ears and he closed his eyes.

* * *

"Here," Lucien said, handing down several impossibly large volumes, each bound in enough leather to keep Vega happy for several years. "_Hogwarts: A History; Complete and Unabridged, with Startling New Chapters Correcting Grievous and Stupid Errors._"

Fleur caught the book, staggering briefly under its weight.

"Here are the next three volumes," Lucien called.

Fleur's eyes widened, but she was saved by the presence of Matthew, who swooped down with a slim, brightly coloured volume. Dream plucked the book from his talon, smiling with amusement.

"_Stories I Hope to Tell Teddy, and Other Assorted Small People_," he read. "Yes. Much better. Thank you, Lucien."

Lucien, in his element perched atop a rickety ladder with several stone of hardcover books, waved merrily. Fleur scowled and set Hermione's _History_ down carefully. She peered curiously at the little book in the Dream Lord's hands, but couldn't quite make it out. For a fleeting moment, she wanted nothing more than to read it; to see Hermione's thoughts laid bare.

"I know where she is," he said, quietly. He held the book up and a startlingly long arm swooped down and snatched it from his hand. "Come with me, Fleur."

He stepped forward, through a hazy piece of the world, into somewhere bright. Glaring. She hurried after him and, when her vision cleared, saw that she was on a familiar moor. Frowning, she spun around, trying to get her bearings. In the distance, perhaps a couple of miles away, sat a horrible, squat little hovel.

Her breath caught. The memory of Bellatrix's cruel mouth and painted lips flashed through her mind. The feeling of Hermione's ribs beneath her hands. The rattling of her last few breaths within her chest. Matthew called above them, his tattered wings dark against the grey sky.

"She's there?" she asked, turning to Dream. He nodded, though he appeared somewhat confused.

"She's not alone," he said, quietly. "My older sister is there, too."

Fleur felt the blood drain from her face.

Dream, older than the stars. Older than galaxies, was not the first of the Endless, if Eve had spoken truly.

Fighting back a scream of terror, Fleur ran.

* * *

Hermione sat, her mouth dry as she regarded the other woman. She looked around Fleur's age but something told Hermione that she was far, far older. Her eyes flickered around her form in the dim light, resting on the necklace she wore.

_An ankh._

"I know you probably don't want to hear this," the other woman said, interrupting her train of thought gently, "but I don't think it's fair that you be kept in the dark."

She drew one foot up onto the inglenook, letting her knee rest lazily against the wall. Her torn jeans, frayed and scuffed, seemed to have gotten that way honestly, rather than by design. Hermione frowned, looking at her face again. Was it a tear drop painted on her cheek, or something else? Something flitted at the very edge of recollection and her frustration grew when she couldn't resolve it more clearly.

"You were almost killed during the Battle."

Hermione was surprised that this woman knew of such things, as she appeared very much to be a muggle, but nodded warily. She was slightly shaken to hear such a thing but, on even brief reflection, realised that the Battle had been incredibly dangerous. It was a miracle they'd made it out relatively unscathed. It was a miracle they hadn't lost more.

"The Dementors," she guessed, remembering the chill that had permeated her soul. The utter despair of knowing that death was at hand. The yawning, screaming void that had opened in the night air around her.

The girl shook her head. "No. Your friends were there to keep you safe. You were never in any danger from those awful things. But you were when you destroyed the cup. It should have left you incapacitated, vulnerable. Which would have changed the whole course of the Battle."

Hermione frowned, remembering stabbing a yellowed fang into soft metal. There'd been the echo of a scream, and some aquatic dramatics from the Chamber walls, but nothing remarkable. She and Ron had exited the Chamber drenched but exultant; ready for the next step. "It didn't harm me at all."

"No, it didn't," she agreed. "It harmed Fleur, instead." Hermione's heart made its presence known once more and she swallowed. This woman knew Fleur, too? And, more importantly, Fleur had suffered on her behalf during the Battle?

"What happened to her?" she asked, quietly. "We, I mean, we haven't spoken about it. About the Battle." A cowardly part of her almost wished that they never would, though it was shrinking, as time passed.

"Well, she wasn't too badly hurt," the woman said, gently. "She was able to fight it, mainly because she's strong, was further away and hadn't earned the personal hatred of the guardian of that cup."

Hermione was curious. "But she was nowhere near me. I don't even know where she was, at that stage. I didn't see her until we met the Dementors. How could she have been hurt at all?"

The woman frowned, as though disappointed that Hermione wasn't keeping up.

"She made you a promise, didn't she? Only the night before?"

Hermione felt her mouth gape open.

"The ritual."

A pale hand swept dark hair over her ear and she nodded.

"Yes. The ritual. I doubt you realised that it was powerful enough to protect you from Death, yet here we are."

* * *

A young City of London bank worker paused to tie his shoelace. As soon as he grasped the tan lace, he realised, too late, that the laces were rat-tails and that he was, in fact. sporting two of London's biggest, foulest brown vermin on each foot.

The screams echoed over the gentrified banks of the Thames. A blue fish broke the surface of the river, peering up blankly before submerging once more.

* * *

Hermione was quiet, digesting all that she'd heard. Her throat was tight and it took several attempts before she could speak.

"Was I meant to die, that night?"

The pale woman nodded her head, with no malice and a hint of regret. "You were meant to fall. To have been unable to fight in the rest of the Battle."

Hermione swallowed thickly, her hand coming to her throat. "But I did fight. I didn't fall

She nodded again, apparently pleased that Hermione was keeping up. "Things changed. Things that don't often change. I thought it was important that you knew that."

"Why?" Hermione asked, her heart racing.

The woman smiled faintly. "Because you helped save the world and earned an explanation, maybe? Harry got his, why shouldn't you?"

"You're not Dumbledore, though," Hermione pointed out.

"No!" she laughed. "No, I'm not. And I'm not the heartless bitch you all think I am, either."

Hermione chuckled. "You really don't seem heartless, not at all. In fact you seem very kind."

She smiled. "I get called that, too. But not usually by people your age."

Hermione was quiet for a moment. "So we changed things. There are going to be consequences, aren't there? There's a price for everything."

The girl scoffed. "No there's not, you know. The universe doesn't sit weighing out right and wrong, balancing it all on some set of cosmic scales. Things were one way. Then you did something so now they're another. Simple as that. From your point of view, things _are_ as they should be. That's what's important."

She sighed.

"That said," she began, slowly, "there were prophecies made, in your world. Fortunes were foretold."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Please don't tell me you think there's a big… I don't know, book with all the future written out in it!"

The girl shrugged. "OK. I won't tell you. But just bear it in mind. You have, in some ways, broken free of prophesy. Or rather, you're on a path where you could escape its notice entirely. That could prove to be very useful."

"We all forge our own path," Hermione insisted, folding her arms. "If you start believing in destiny and the like, then you have to admit that there's no _choice_. That we're just playing out the roles assigned to us. I refuse to believe that. Destiny is an emergent phenomenon. We see random events occur and assign importance to them, depending on our point of view."

The girl chuckled. "Well. That's true. It is. But it's _also_ true that there's a big book, with every thing that has ever happened written within it."

Hermione frowned. "Aren't those mutually exclusive?"

"Not if the book also contains all the possibilities." She smiled. "All of them, overlapping and endless."

Hermione nodded. "Well. It must be a very big book, then."

The girl nodded, her face wistful and somewhat distant. "It is a big book. It weighs as much as all of creation. In it is written all that was, all that is and all that will be." She chuckled. "Strange, to be talking about it here, in a place of things that never were and will never be."

Hermione took that in, her eyes drifting to a candle flame. "There's an idea, isn't there, that two things may exist at once. Unseen, until they're observed."

"At which point one becomes real," the girl agreed. "It doesn't work exactly like that, but it's a good start."

She sighed. "You live in a world filled with experts in divination and the like. A world rotten with prophecies. It's a rare talent to be beyond their scope."

Hermione shrugged. "Prophesy is what one makes of it. Even the prophecy made about Harry was, at the end of the day, fulfilled by the actions Voldemort took. If he'd ignored it, who knows what would have happened." She smiled. "But I appreciate the idea of evading them."

"Be careful," she said, softly. "Few people walk beyond the paths of destiny, Hermione. Few return the way they left."

Hermione was quiet for a moment. "There aren't many who walk _any_ path unchanged. And I 'd rather do so of my own will. Of my own volition."

The girl smiled. "So be it. In the end, we'll meet again whatever happens."

* * *

Fleur's legs were burning, her breath coming in shallow pants as she threw herself up the last few paces to the little hovel. She didn't even reach for a weapon, this time, so complete was her anxiety and terror.

"Hermione!" she roared, flinging herself through the door way, her shoulder shoving the flimsy door out of the way. Her lover was half way to her feet, startled and blinking, and Fleur threw her arms around her, clutching her to her chest.

"Fleur," she laughed, "what's gotten into you?"

"Hermione," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut and burying her face into the soft, fragrant skin of her neck. She inhaled, letting her senses fill with unique, beloved scent of the woman in her arms. Tears stung her eyes. "I thought you were lost."

"Fleur," she murmured, stroking Fleur's hair gently, sounding somewhat bemused. "I'm fine. I wandered around by myself for a bit. But I'm all right."

"Oh," Fleur gulped, swallowing a sob, "this place… You were alone here." Didn't she realise the danger? Didn't she realise what had happened here?

"It was fine," Hermione said, soothingly. "What happened to you?"

"She entered through nightmare," Dream said. Hermione squirmed, probably to see who else was here but Fleur did not loosen her grasp.

"She was accosted by one of my subjects. She was unharmed, but unable to awaken. She found refuge in the House of Mysteries with a group of my servants." Fleur's legs were trembling, weakening, and she fought the urge to collapse. Hermione was solid in her arms, steady and sure even if she was a bit confused.

"Nightmare?" Hermione echoed, her tone sharp. "What did your subject do?" she demanded, her fingers digging into Fleur's shoulders.

"Nothing that is not in its nature," Dream said, baldly. "Nothing that will harm her permanently."

"We all have nightmares," a short woman said, softly. Fleur's face whipped up, and she could feel the blood drain from it. Sitting where Bellatrix had, was a woman with chalky skin, bearing the Eye of Horus and wearing an ankh.

_Death! _

"The important thing is that we wake up from them," she finished. She had, some part of Fleur noted, a beautiful smile. She seemed very kind.

Fleur took several steps backwards, separating from the other witch but pulling Hermione with her. The was no way she was letting her lover anywhere near the being. Kind or not, she was death personified and Fleur wanted nothing to do with her.

"I still don't see how they're here," Matthew muttered from Dream's shoulder, confused. "I mean, she has Veela blood, so it is not impossible, but the other one should never have been able to enter by the paths she did, if I'm following this right."

"They performed a spell," Dream said, peering at the pair with his disconcerting eyes. Fleur tightened her grasp on Hermione's hand, wondering if now would be a good time to try and escape. "They made promises to one another. Cleaved to each other's fate. And they did this with blood."

"And they drifted off to sleep in a particularly soft place," Death reminded him. "I mean, it's kind of amazing they didn't stumble here sooner, don't you think."

The Lord of Dreams stood still, his dark, inscrutable gaze flicking between them all. Fleur gripped Hermione's hand as tightly as she could, her heart pounding in her chest. His sister laughed and hopped up out of the inglenook where she'd been perched. She pushed her unruly dark hair back over her forehead, her shadowed eyes soft with some private mirth.

"I'll leave this to you, little brother." She clapped him on the shoulder. "But don't be hard on them, they didn't mean to do it."

"It is not done," he muttered, a frown creasing his brow.

"Well, it clearly _was_!" she chirped. She stepped towards the pair of witches, drawing a small bundle, apparently from no where.

"Hermione, I think this belongs to you," she said, eyes tinged with sadness as she held her hands out.

Hermione frowned and took her hand from Fleur's grasp, leaving the blonde flexing her fingers nervously. Through the still air, the heavy and oppressive atmosphere, she stepped forwards. Unfolding the bundle revealed a familiar battered denim jacket. Fleur's heart leapt into her throat and she wanted to scream, such was the terror that overtook her at the sight.

"I didn't realise I'd lost this," Hermione muttered, frowning.

"You almost did," Death said, a wry expression crossing her face. She sighed. "I have to go. Duty calls. See you soon, little brother."

"And you, sister."

She rolled her eyes at the formal bow the man had sketched and shook her head at the girls. "Until we meet again."

Hermione smiled and gave a little wave, seemingly puzzled by proceedings.

"When?" Fleur croaked, her throat constricted and her eyes shining with unshed tears. "How long until then?"

Death smiled wryly. "Do you really need to know?"

"I… I want to know how much time I have…" _with her._

By some miracle, or perhaps long experience, she seemed to know precisely what Fleur meant. She smiled again and turned for the door, stepping out into the grey light.

"You get what everyone gets, Fleur."

Her eyes were soft and dark. They were impossibly ancient but shone with hope and optimism. She held Fleur's gaze, steady and reassuring but without condescension. There was acceptance there, an acknowledgment that all things would end. That all would pass, in its own time.

"You get a life time."

And with that, she was gone.

* * *

The three of them walked in silence, Matthew following above them. He occasionally turned his wing and wheeled ahead, looping in great curves, but more often than not, he stayed within hearing range, perhaps expecting to hear something interesting. They came, eventually, to an immense gate. It was roughly hewn, great tree trunks lashed together. It was inlaid with jagged horn, unpolished and uninviting. There did not appear to be a way to climb over or around it and it seemed designed to rip the flesh from unwary hands.

Dream, however, reached surely into the centre of a tangle of horns and pulled, gently. The gate swung open silently, obeying its master's whim. He stood quietly for a moment, gazing out into the void beyond his borders.

"The last time," he said, speaking softly and quietly, "that I escorted a witch from this Kingdom, it did not end well. In fact, there was much harm done. I trust you two will not repeat her mistakes."

Hermione shook her head. "We never even intended to come here. We had no idea that it was even possible."

He turned to them, inscrutable and imperious.

"You didn't know that she has seer's blood?"

"No," Fleur answered, her hand firm around Hermione's. "I never knew."

He stood still for a moment, contemplating what they'd said. Neither knew what to expect, though a small part of Fleur was dreading punishment.

"The Dreaming is a source of magic for your kind, and a potent one at that," the Dream Lord intoned in his quiet, thoughtful voice. "One from which you both drew when the pain of separation became unbearable."

He turned his attention to Hermione, studying her carefully. "You, especially, have walked strange paths through here, recently. I'm still not entirely sure why. But I caution you to be wary."

He sighed, dipping his head for a moment. "It is my sisters who walk beyond the paths laid down by Destiny. If you wish to do the same, know that it will not be easy."

Hermione nodded, her face drawn and solemn. She tightened her grip on Fleur's hand, earning a small smile in return. This, apparently, didn't go unnoticed by Dream.

"It is not unknown for dreamers to accompany one another here but it is seldom wise. Accompany one another through the waking world, if you will. The Dream Marches are to be crossed alone. Otherwise, why traverse them at all?

"You have a mind each. A heart each. A soul each. Seek to compliment one another, not to _become_ one another. Share your dreams in the waking world, as befits your kind."

He turned from them, facing away from his Kingdom. Hermione stepped forward, tugging Fleur after her.

"Could this happen again?" she asked, facing the quiet monarch.

"No," he said, quietly. "I will see to it. You don't have to worry. You'll each enter this place as you should."

"Thank you," Hermione said, softly. "I'm sorry we disrupted your realm."

Dream smiled briefly. "Oh, it's seen far worse in recent years. This will be forgotten by morning."

Hand in hand, they bid their farewells and stepped forward, into the void between worlds. Tumbling, briefly suspended in a place without time, without gravity and without sensation, they awoke, hand in hand.

* * *

Evening was falling, the light shifting into red and violet hues. Iliana stood beside her grand daughter, a traveling pack slung between her folded wings. Her face was lined with worry and uncertainty.

"It's time," she said, quietly. "Light fades. I can travel without worrying about detection. I will return, soon."

She lifted her proud face and pinned Vega with solemn eyes. "Please, look after her. It would break my heart…"

Senka laid an understanding hand on her shoulder. "We will. We'll look after both of them."

Iliana nodded and turned to the bed, leaning to kiss her grand daughter's brow. However, just after she began to stoop, the young woman's eyes shot open and she drew in a long, tremulous breath.

"Gramere?" she asked, blinking with confusion. "What's going on?"

A brief screech from the other side of the bed sounded and Hermione sat up, her eyes wide as they darted around the group of people standing in her bedroom.

"Fleur!?" she squeaked, gripping her lover's arm, "what's happening?"

Vega felt her mouth sag open, and couldn't contain the bark of laughter that escaped. "Well, you fell asleep and you couldn't wake up. Fleur came to get us. You seem better now, though."

Senka slapped her shoulder and sent a stinging glare her way. "Are you all right? What happened? Was it a curse?"

Fleur blinked, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Hermione shook her head dumbly, before glancing down at her nightdress. She swallowed and adjusted the neck line nervously.

"We, um, well, we got lost. I got lost. But Fleur found me. There wasn't a curse, don't worry."

"Did it have something to do with the spell?" McGonagall asked, peering over the top of her glasses. "The spell you cast on the beach."

Hermione's eyes widened to a comical degree and she whirled to face Fleur.

"You told them!?"

* * *

Rain fell beneath orange lights, bathing the world around her in lurid neon tones. She knew that this was the single most likely colour to attract the sort of people she liked, so she was standing with her doggy, idly scratching his head.

"You know, I once was in a place where hats talked."

"Hats always talk," Barnabas replied, leaning his heavy head against her leg. "Or, well, they have people to do that for 'em. Why go to the bother of speaking, when some chump can flap his gums for you?"

The girl smiled. She tipped her face up into the rain, her mismatched eyes sparkling in the sea of slow falling droplets.

* * *

Several hours, and many cups of tea, later, the pair of witches had recounted their adventures as best they could. They'd been quizzed and interrogated, unhappy at the intrusion but sheepishly compliant. Eventually, Fleur's eyes had begun to droop and Vega had nudged her wife, gently.

"Well, I don't know about you, but we have to get back to the village. Iliana, are you coming?"

Iliana, being used to the mannerisms of the little queen, did not protest. She kissed her grand daughter's brow and nodded curtly at Hermione before sweeping out of the little cottage.

"We'll take our leave as well," McGonagall stated, standing and nodding primly at Pomfrey. The nurse bustled after her, tired and vaguely shell shocked.

McGonagall paused as she drew level with Hermione, fixing her with a stern gaze.

"Miss Granger," she said, her lips drawn into a thin line. "I trust this doesn't change your desire to complete your schooling?"

Hermione frowned. "No! Of course not."

"Good. But," she leaned forward, peering over the rims of her spectacles. "Might I remind you that Hogwarts students must abide by certain rules. You will, when you return, be inside the portrait of the Fat Lady by ten o'clock, midnight on Fridays and Saturdays. With _no_ guests. Do I make myself clear?"

Hermione's jaw dropped. She opened her mouth to protest but, spying the hard look on the headmistresses' face, nodded meekly instead.

"Yes, headmistress."

"And," she said, turning to Fleur, "I'm sure you wouldn't even consider encouraging Miss Granger to flout these rules, would you?"

Fleur swallowed. "Perish the thought, headmistress."

"Good. I'm glad we all understand one another." She sighed. "Oh well. It could be worse."

Hermione frowned, completely taken aback. "Headmistress?"

"At least neither of you can get the other pregnant!"

With that she swept out of the little cottage, leaving several shocked witches in her wake.

* * *

A young woman dressed in ripped jeans stood beside a wailing infant, frowning. His mother and father lay close by, unmoving in the cold night air. He reached chubby arms out to her, inconsolable. Blood seeped from a jagged wound on his forehead, stinging his eyes.

"Sorry, kiddo," she said, stepping carefully to avoid the dark stain beneath the cot. "Not tonight."

* * *

In the fitful light cast by a smouldering fire, three witches sat in pensive silence. One wore the form of a monstrous breast while the other two were unusually beautiful. Each bore a similar burden, though, easily perceived around the eyes.

"We knew," began Gabriela Senka, "we knew before we came here that it was a soft place."

"Indeed," Iliana agreed. "It is the main reason we had for coming at all."

Vega, her inky hair burnished by the flames stared into the dark corners of the Queen's chambers, silent and stoic.

"But," Senka continued, "to be so soft… I didn't think it was possible."

Iliana sighed. "We would never had known how bad it is, if not for Fleur and the girl."

Senka frowned. "She does have a name, you know. Don't be rude."

Iliana huffed. "I challenge you to be as kind to who ever has the misfortune of becoming Celeste's first paramour!"

Vega's eye shot up. "That," she said, her voice low and rumbling, "will not be happening for at least three decades."

Senka rolled her eyes and Iliana chuckled. "We shall see."

They were quiet again, the brief humour evaporating swiftly.

"There is much to do," Senka said, quietly.

"There is," Iliana agreed.

"Do we tell Fleur anything?" Vega asked, "or McGonagall?"

Iliana was quiet for a moment, contemplating the question. "For now, we say nothing. This may be nothing more than echoes from the Battle."

Vega and Senka nodded. Iliana closed her eyes and, in a rare show of weariness, dropped her head to her hands.

"At least, I hope."

* * *

The cottage was quiet, finally. The fire snapped in the stove as Fleur tidied cups and saucers onto the dresser. She sighed, rubbing her tired eyes.

She entered her bedroom, surprised to find it almost dark. The makeshift curtains had been draped over one of the curtain poles, covering the window which looked towards the path, while the other remained bare. Moonlight shone in, illuminating her lover's outline as she sat on the edge of the bed. Her hair was pulled back in an untidy bun, several tendrils escaping to flow over her long, pale neck.

Hermione did not turn her head, clearly lost in thought as she watched the reflection of moonlight on the lake. Fleur, overcome with relief and gratitude, knelt on the bed behind her, touching the nape of her neck with reverent fingers. Hermione leaned back minutely and Fleur leaned forward, kissing the bare skin softly.

Her lover exhaled and silently stood, taking the hem of her t-shirt and peeling it off. She draped the discarded garment on the bed frame and turned, kneeling to face her. Her skin glowed in the moonlight and Fleur swallowed, overcome.

"You came for me," Hermione said, dark eyes soft beneath sooty eyelashes. "Thank you."

Fleur lifted her hand again and touched her face. Hermione's skin was soft and warm and real. This was no dream. That world of half shadows and implicit falsehoods was behind them, for now. She moved closer, their knees touching in a pool of cold, silver light.

"I will always come for you," she whispered, her fingers dropping from Hermione's face, trailing along her neck to rest in the well between her collar bones. Her lover's mouth was parted and her eyes bore into her, intense with passion.

"What happened was impossible," she whispered.

"That's true," Fleur agreed, running her fingers down Hermione's breast bone, reluctantly pulling away long enough to discard her own clothes. "But it happened, none the less. Like it or not, you will never be alone, abandoned, as long as I draw breath."

Hermione's gaze fell to her chest and abdomen. Without glamour, she sat revealed. Body and soul, naked with scars shining. With nothing to hide. Strands of hair fell across Hermione's brow and Fleur brushed them away fondly. Hermione did not smile, but her solemn eyes revealed nothing but peace.

She lifted her hands and touched Fleur's shoulders, guiding her forward as she herself knelt up. Fleur found her face cradled against the curve of Hermione's breast and wrapped her arms around her lover, greedy for the sensation of skin on skin as she pressed them together. One arm beneath, around her thighs, and one above, palm splayed between her shoulder blades. Renewal and revelation offered in equal measure.

Hermione kissed her head, burying her face in her hair as she wound her fingers through. Fleur could hear her heart and breath; air and blood surging beneath her. She pressed her lips to the soft skin beneath her, lingering and unwilling to pull away.

"Neither will you," her lover whispered, her grip tightening. "Never. And if you ever need me, I'll come find you, too."

It was some time before either moved. Before they lay down together and wrote those same promises across each other's bodies in silver, dappled light.

* * *

In the northern-most reaches of Scotland, there is a castle. In the shadow of that great fortress sits a little cottage with a crooked roof and small windows. Within that cottage you would, if you were lucky, find two witches. They are both talented and cunning, in the manner of their respective people. They are not yet wise, but only because they are still young. They know spells the likes of which would cause mundane minds like yours and mine to scream to the heavens. They know secrets of this world the likes of which would tear the veil from the void, expose it to even mundane eyes, like yours and mine.

But there is much they do not know. They do not know how long their lives will last. They do not know how much time has been granted for the love they share. They do not know what the future will hold. They do not know if this night will be the last they ever share or if it will be one of many. They do not know what the dawn will bring or the meaning behind the patterns of moonlight on the lake.

They know, though, the sounds the other makes. The sounds they make together. They know the scent and taste of their shared joy. They know that no matter where the paths of the future lead they will, for a while at least, share the journey.

They know, with surety and confidence and independent of one another, that walking together would be a good thing. It's a simple certainty that makes the myriad uncertainties seem unimportant. That their lives will be better if they remain with one another, though neither could hazard a guess as to how they know this.

They suspect that there is a bond between them, though neither would speculate regarding its nature. It is new and perhaps fragile but still strong enough to make impossible things happen. It frightens each of them, though intrigues and excites them, too. After all, it isn't every day that one is chased (or chases) through dreams.

We leave them now, to their quiet slumber and peace. To be soothed by the whisper of night wind through browning rushes and the thrilling of night birds. Leave them in each other's arms, to find that peace they may, in the time allowed.

The castle is still splendid at night. Moonlight washes over the slates and glints on dark windows. Soft light spills here and there, with steam from the kitchen and smoke from a fire. The kitchen workers relax with bottles of frothy liquid and sing in their cellar. Ancient warlocks and witches sit drinking brandy around a warm fire, talking softly.

It is quiet and perfect, and empty rooms beckon. Surely there's room for another? Surely they need another pair of hands? The world recedes from you, though you ache to stay. The fields and hedges blur beneath you and the stars streak together. It's time to leave, though you wish with all your heart that you could stay.

Will you be back? Will this dream repeat itself when next you sleep? Will the castle be there, waiting and perfect. Will you walk its halls this time? Explore its depths? Will you meets its inhabitants? Will you hear their stories?

The waking world tugs at you, stirring you from the depths of slumber. You have seen much but what will you remember, once this dream ends? What will remain in your mind's-eye, in the cold light of day? Pray, do not answer aloud. We all deserve our secrets.

But even if you forget all else, remember that there is a place where impossible things happen. A place where heroes and monsters abound. A place where true love _does_ awaken the sleeping beauty.

Wake softly, and gently. Until the next time.

* * *

_The End_

Well, your thoughts and ideas, now that it's finished, would be much appreciated. Hang in there! Stick me on alert. The next one's less weird, I promise.


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